Gospel of Chris
by Dumbledore is Gay
Summary: When the author, a budding DM, asks his buddy Chris about his greatest campaign ever, he gets an ear-full of what seems like conspiracy theories and paranoia. If he had only left well enough alone. Because being a hero is never easy. Dark Days Are Coming. Oh joy. Rated T for Teen. CHAPTER 8 IS HERE!
1. Prologue

Last year I finally started coming out of my shell. I have a few wonderful siblings, but lately, the closest relationship I've had with any of them is with my brother. He's a real bro. He dragged me down to the seaside TWICE to get drunk and party, which we did (mightily I might add), and we went off to the Iron Maiden concert in Cluj-Napoca with a few friends (we had the great, good fortune, of grabbing some tickets CHEAP off of someone who cancelled . After the concert, we stayed up late with a group of cool people, in a nice quiet neighborhood and shared a couple of beers.

That's when I met Chris face to face for the first time. Fellow nerd, Dungeons&Dragons fanatic, much the same hobbies as me, swell guy. We met in a D&D chat room, and became fast friends. He's lived in Bucharest before moving to Cluj from job to job and before that, he's run a game of D&D - which many of our fellow nerds who knew him describe as "BEST CAMPAIGN EVER" - for a group of friends from abroad.

Guy was a legend among nerds.

I, being a budding Dungeon Master, started grilling him for the juicy bits, having heard in various chat rooms about his mad l33t skillz, hoping for a tale of epic proportions – of battle, of hardship, of lulz. He bade me to come closer. I followed him to a park bench two meters away from the group. There, in the evening dark, he confided in me – that this particular campaign had been most unusual.

That it was a true story.

I said, "Of course it's a true story – I mean, you've played it, for fuck's sake. You're messing with me man. Good one, you had me going there for a bit. Now I REALLY have to know what happened!"

He chuckled, a bitter, knowing sound, and for a second there, he seemed decades older than 24.

Chris leaned in close. Whispered, "I know you think I'm messing with ya, man, and believe me, I wish I were." Then he reached into his pocket, and withdrew something. As soon as I recognized it, IT gave me the chills.

IT was a minuscule contraption of black plastic, with what looked like a miniaturized microphone set-up. I'd seen stuff like this only on conspiracy theory websites, late at night, when I was pretending, hoping maybe, that the truth behind cover-ups, mysterious sightings and black helicopters would finally reveal itself to me.

That it would make my pathetic excuse for a life exciting. Worth living.

"I found it this morning. It was concealed in a small cavity in my bed. And this one," motioning to another one of the little techno-terrors, "was carefully hooked into my PC. It was redirecting info to whoever put it in there. Passwords, copies of files and folders, the works. The hardware equivalent of a trojan Most likely they have software trojans in there as well, ones I couldn't find. No signs of forced entry. I clean my own room, the landlords don't snoop around in there, and the only ones allowed inside are my friends."

That last bit made him wince visibly. "At least, there were no signs of forced entry I could find."

He leaned in closer, whispering even more softly, "Whatever rumors you've heard, what happened to me and my friends was a series of real, honest-to-goodness unexplained phenomena. Conspiracy, voodoo crap, aliens, mind-control experiment, I'm still not sure. I'm frankly too scared to even start asking around. I have NO idea what to do, who to turn to. Too frightened to throw out my notes," he motioned to a decrepit-looking manila folder stuffed with paper, "too terrified to post online, or burn them, and too shaken to write about it. I'm fucked."

He closed his eyes, shivering like a goddamn shadow had reached into his very being.

He fixed me with his feverish stare, the stare of a forsaken soul, lost in the desert, with his salvation at hand, and continued.

"For the love of God and all that is decent," he thrust the folder at me, "take it. Write it up. Post it on whatever site will accept it. We did our bit, the truth must go out. THEY cannot keep it hidden forever. My comrades are in agreement over this. We have friends in high places, we have the resources. Our allies can protect you."

"I," he motioned to himself, "am already compromised. They've infiltrated my circle of friends. They can come and go as they please in my house. It's only a matter of time until I vanish off the face of the world." His bitter laugh was like the cawing of a hungry raven, like a bell signalling motherfucking doom and damnation.

I wish I were joking.

"I'll transmit the necessary countersigns; you will be safe from retribution. No, no, I am already a dead man. There is no hope for me. I've wasted most of my life, with games, hobbies and trivial jobs. This 'll be my magnum opus. This will be worthwhile. Something noble to die for." His eyes started gazing into the past.

"You know, all my life, whenever I was seriously depressed, I started moping and wishing that, at least in death, I could do something valuable, something noble. Save a life, tackle a suicide bomber out a window, you know. Adolescent fantasies..." He became serious. "Be careful what you wish for," he hissed, "'cause you just MIGHT get it."

"Show it to NO ONE. Write the tale as fast as you can. Post it with this recognition code", he thrust a dingy A4 notebook at me, cover depicting a scene from The Two Towers, "with these EXACT grammatical errors at these EXACT positions within the text. They will recognize you, and keep you safe."

"...master troll is masterful." I wasn't buying it.

He ignored my jibe, and transfixed me to the spot with this desperate, pleading look. Kind of like the look I give when trying to pick up chicks, except, you know, he wasn't trying to pick me up.

I finally collected my wits and said, "This is some Foucault's Pendulum slash Illuminati slash Montauk Project shit right there, son. You're kind of scaring me. Look, I wish I could help, but how the hell can I trust you? How can YOU trust ME? For all you know, I could be an agent for the bad guys, here to cover everything up and make you VANISH." The mountain air was refreshing. It lent me its coolness, its strength. I would need it.

"This is PROBABLY way bigger than me, Christian. It's way bigger than you. Hell, I don't have your connections, whatever they may be. I'm just some nerd, dreaming about becoming a famous movie director with a harem of admirers."

His eyes went wide, then chuckled. "You're a man of modest ambitions I see."

Good. I'd broken the somber mood. Now it was time for the hard sell.

"I dunno what to say, Chris, dude, I don't wanna endanger my family. I mean, I've DREAMED of unveiling the, quote, terrible truth, and unquote. But I never..."

"... thought it would be this way? Well, the Universe works in mysterious ways."

Somber mood was back. Shit on a stick.

"What am I ultimately?" I tried to defend myself," I'm NOBODY in the grand scheme of things. IF what you say is true, these shadowy assholes could crush me like a bug, sweep me under the rug, and it'll be like I never existed. They will burn the documents, the will suppress the truth. Just like they often do." The fear came forth, unbidden, with its old ally, paranoia. The ancient instincts that guided our ancestors and kept them alive as long as possible had engaged full-power. DANGER WILL ROBINSON DANGER, it screamed at me. STAY CLEAR OF THIS BULLSHIT.

"Not you, no. They cannot crush everyone. They can't hide the truth forever. I swear to God, you will be safe. Be our mouthpiece dude, write our story, do something great with your life. Be part of something glorious." It was the puppy-dog eyes that did it, I swear.

"I... alright. But I'll keep this stuff only until I'm done, then I'll return it. Or destroy it, in case I can't find you." His tense posture relaxed visibly. The sense of relief in the air was palpable, the doom and gloom was gone.

"Now," he said, putting on his best DM face "let me tell you a tale of epic proportions – of battle, of hardship, of lulz."

"Cool."

We laughed – that slightly-nervous laughter people associate with nerds... and which heralds the coming of relief. But this was a hearty laughter, and a merry time did we have, until the dawning sun warmed our faces.

Next morning we spent loitering about the town, our afternoon snoozing and reading in the train station, and our train ride sleeping, or trying to. Chris bought us breakfast and entertained us throughout the morning, then dragged me aside to remind me of the seriousness of the situation and to give me the now-infamous code book and manila folder. Sleep did not beckon me for a good hour after we left Cluj. Chris' haunting look as he told me his story – or hallucination, I could not tell which – had nailed itself to my grey matter.

One thing was for sure, I was intrigued by this.

It begins.

* * *

><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

I'm assuming that the title hasn't scared you away. Nor has the tag of Dungeons&Dragons made you snort and say "Oh it's one of THOSE stories..." - and apply to me titles like "wannabe Tolkien" or some such. Maybe it intrigued you, curious to see for yourself what this all is about. Or you're just plain bored.

I have been taught some important lessons by life so far, sometimes learned the hard way:

1 – Not to expect that everything will come handed to me on a silver platter.

2 – Not to insult people, but to instead try and understand them.

3 – That a small degree of conformism is necessary in order to function in society.

4 – That for some things, you have to struggle in order to obtain them. If they are given to you, they lose all value they might have held, because it is NOT your achievement, but someone else's.

All things require that you work at them, whether with mind, muscle, words, feelings or all of the above. Those achieved with "daddy's money/power/influence" - they do not count.

Some... require blood, of your own, and others, taken by force... or freely given. Wise man named Tertullian once said that, "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church"; this has a depth of insight which is all too often lost on believers today, of any religion. I say that the blood, and not only, of martyrs is the fuel of Mankind. Probably not ONLY Mankind.

Many of the things you read, the content of perhaps half of the books published today is fantasy, because it helps us escape from the realities of an often mundane life. The majority see life as mundane because they do not know HOW to see.

You might think I'm going with this for one of two clichés – that of enlightened one, or poor bastard that's tearing his eyes out because he's just noticed that the shoggoth having a wank in the corner WAS ALWAYS THERE. Or there's the one so shaken by his revelation, that when he gets home he decides to put it on paper, so he can pound some sense into the thick heads of his fellow slack-jawed mortals.

I'm all or the above, in some measure. Except, you know, eyes still there. Not for lack of trying. 'nervous laughter'

This is a true story.

Did that shock you? Are you amused? Confused? Frightened?

I know I was all of the above.

Sometimes I lie awake at night, and can still feel it with all senses.

_Blood_ – thick, life-giving, coppery in smell.

_Fear_ – acrid stench, danger Will Robinson, DANGER! GET AWAY!

_Adrenaline_ – from man to superman.

_Intellect _– gears turning, data processed, ideas formed, considered, discarded.

_Camaraderie_ – which the Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines as "a spirit of friendly good-fellowship".

All of the above characterize our tale.

Without shedding Blood, our own and that of friends and foes, we would have perished a thousand deaths more heinous than the deepest pits of dread can conceive of.

Without Fear, we would have been fools, blundering into danger we were not prepared to face, and we would all be Dead. Yes, dear reader, even You.

Adrenaline kept us alive, kept us moving, kept us fighting, when horrors both familiar and unknown struck at us with weapon and claw, fang, tentacle and worse.

Intellect helped us overcome our challenges through the boon of Planning, Cunning, Strategy and Tactics – brute force, physical or magical, no matter how great, are useless without Control.

Camaraderie kept us together in the midst of all the danger, all the terror, all the Adventure that we did not ask for, but which we received regardless. For when the Universe calls out for Saviors, it's sometimes the ones that seem least suited to the task that are thrown into the breach, to stem the tide of Horror and Unreality.

The definition of Camaraderie does not do the feeling justice, but then, few things would. What would a statue built to honor Camaraderie look like? I hope it's not us on the pedestal – many who have statues built in their honor are gifted by this with a mythical air, so aloof, so far above "the common man", that they could never hope to achieve THEIR greatness.

Not true. The ones that have statues commemorating them – scientists, leaders, artists – were NOT born with some magical "seed of greatness" up their bums; they got there through their own struggles. We were just there, at the wrong place, at the right time. My comrades would agree that we barely scraped through, were saved by outright Miracles, and that we were probably not the best people for the job. We're modest like that. I, personally, would LOVE a statue, but I'd never accept if they were not in it. No statues for us, thanks.

One September evening, after my homework was finished, I sat down and started channel surfing. Flipped past some image of these... massive towers burning, frowned, then on to Discovery Channel. My grandpa, God bless him, asked me to switch back, and then stood there in shock, watching the burning buildings. "So what?" I thought at the time. "You see disasters on TV all the time. Why is this one special?" I was still young and naïve at the time. What did I know?

It didn't hit me until later that this was no ordinary disaster, but a man-inflicted one. The evil that men do... When our ordeal was all over, I sat down at my grimy keyboard, still shell-shocked, just like the day I realized what happened on that Sept 11, and started writing -

- a true story.

A prophet, when they have experienced a revelation, they WILL write it down, if able. To transmit the message further than their mortal mouth can, to enlighten their fellow man. I guess I'm a prophet too, of a sort, although not a very good one. Cut me some slack, dear readers, I'm new at this whole prophet thing.

This is a work of human and inhuman experience – of camaraderie, fear, bloodshed, lessons learned, of life, death, war, the desire for peace, and religious conviction.

It is, functionally speaking, an adventure/fantasy/war novel. An after-action-report. A chronicle of our struggles, lives, dreams and deaths. Imperfect and incomplete, for now, it will have to do.

Most of the names, genders, nationalities, and other details that might be used to identify us, have been changed in order to protect the privacy and lives of the aforementioned persons and their loved ones.

Most of the people and events depicted in this work are real, corroborated from interviews with survivors, first-hand experience, speculations and written accounts.

Bound in digital format, written in blood, sweat and tears, this is our novel, our work, our Gospel.

Open your senses to the world. Feel, don't think. Open your eyes, then open them again.

Not all is as you perceive it.

This is a true story.

Dark Days Are Coming.

* * *

><p><em>Ooh, creepy.<em>

_Writefag here. This is apparently all that Chris has managed to write out of his story. Until further notice, this here's the prologue. Now, I'm writefagging this as I go through his notes – personal diaries, military-style maps, reports, notes scrawled on scrap paper. Some of it is illegible, and some of it incomplete. But I sure as hell will try my hardest to put it together._

_I have to admit, it's pretty detailed, and damned interesting. If the man wanted to write a fantasy novel, he wouldn't have needed a ghost writer in the first place, namely, yours truly. Bet he's just damned lazy._

_What was he trying to pull, shoving some amateur spy shit under my nose which he probably got off eBay for under 10$? Dude's a conspiracy nut. I mean, I like conspiracy theories too and all, but he's just taking it too far. It's like a bizarre game of alternate reality role-play to him._

_Who knows, maybe this will turn out to be the next Lord of the Rings or some such. And maybe, I can grab a piece of that fame for myself. You can never tell._

_Until then, I remain, yours humbly_

_The writefag _

_Dumbledore Is Gay_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes 28<strong>**th**** May 2013: **

_**Prologue has been partially re-written and uploaded – now with 20% more awesome and better grammar/formatting! RADICAL! Any questions that have gone unanswered, any bits that don't make sense, any nitpicking – post it. Post it, and I shall answer. Ask, and ye shall receive. Aloha!**_

* * *

><p><strong>My intro<strong> – 1554 words. **Prologue by Chris** – 1186 words. **Author's Notes** – 257 words.


	2. The Blond Dungeon Master

Somewhere in our universe, in a spiral glittering collection of lights called the Milky Way, in the arm a certain curious species of primates had dubbed Orion, orbiting a medium-sized star, lies a blue and insignificant planet. In one of the planet's more sizable cities, among millions of his fellow mortals, there lived a slightly-different, but just as insipid, mortal called Chris. And Chris was a happy bunny.

Never mind that there had been problems with withdrawing cash from his bank account. Forgotten was the long line at the bank, the pressure his clients were putting on his translation skills, the economic crisis which seemed to have swept the world, the black sedan which soaked his trousers earlier that morning. The mundane, insipid routine of many a modern city dweller's life.

Today was Friday. And Friday was Game Night. With a little luck, maybe even a bit of tomorrow as well. That meant adventure, excitement, danger, daring escapes, fiendish plots, humor of all sorts, all in the comfort of your own home, surrounded by good friends. And all with dice, paper, pencils, several game books and a lot of imagination.

His friends, through many trials and tribulations, much re-ordering of schedules and a mutual love of fantasy table-top games, had finally agreed to a follow-up game of his first-ever D&D campaign. Starting innocuously, it had been a hectic, barely-contained mess of puns, lulz and fun, complete with thinly-veiled references to popular culture.

They had started with a myriad of sub-optimal characters, including but not limited to monk-snipers and sorcerers with a love affair with danger-close and friendly-fire. These were quickly winnowed out by harsh dice, the rigors of adventure and bored players in the quest for more power. They had moved on to standard fantasy plots, slaying goblins, robbing stores, helping out small towns, working on discovering who was threatening Toril space with a massive war, and a madman hell-bent on conquest with terrible new weapons.

They ended up fighting pirates from the Elemental Plane of Piracy, finding the Holy Grail, demolishing a mighty fortress and its lord-wizard, flirting with the infamous Lady of Pain, ruler of the inter-dimensional City of Sigil, and to finish off, conquering and rebuilding the fabled ruins of Myth Drannor into an enormous hand giving the finger to the Universe. Visible from space.

Funnily enough, one of the girls had thought of that.

And the campaign's villain – oh, how he had worked on him – had appeared a grand total of three times, and had ended his life accidentally crushed by a giant block of granite the unhinged player character (PC for short) wizard had INSISTED on using as a skipping stone. And to think their group's resident book-worm had accidentally one-shot the campaign villain with what essentially amounted to TEN THOUSAND TONS OF GRANITE. Oh, how he regretted the day when she acquired those blasted magical gauntlets.

Lessons were learned from this, oh yes.

1) Strictly regulate what magic items enemies and treasure-chests have, and what stuff players can buy and craft.

2) Regulate amount of experience awarded.

3) Have back-up plans for EVERYTHING.

4) Keep discussion not relating to the topic at hand to a minimum.

5) Review character builds before play, so as to weed out game-breakers.

And

6) Pray it all works. Pray really hard. If all else fails, improvise.

He was decent at improvisation. With a group like that, you HAD to be.

Yeah, they were like that, he mused, but they were not too bad, all things considered. Sitting down with friends – even a diverse, multinational bunch as them – rolling funky dice, killing monsters, joking around, braving danger and experiencing an adventure through the medium of cooperative storytelling and fantasy war gaming – that's what it was all about.

Not even the light grey October sky, chill wind, rusted leaves covering the sidewalk, and melancholy view of a Bucharest in the grips of Autumn did much to spoil his good mood. He whispered to himself, "I've finally figured out this blasted season, it drives one to melancholy, rather than depression. Nature does not lie down to die, it just lies down to sleep, awaiting the chill blanket of Winter, followed by Spring, followed by..."

Stop. Calm. He had to rein in his thoughts. Maybe he could inject this emotional state in the first game session.

His steps livened, mind buzzing with ideas, possibilities, plot hooks, ideas for Non-Player Characters, locations...

Arriving home, he checked his crappy mobile phone. 16:00 o'clock. Plenty of time to lay out the stuff in the living room, care for the cat, feed himself, and review his notes – in case, that is, they would actually START that day. His buddies were notoriously slow at creating characters. He couldn't blame them, it was a laborious process, especially if you wanted to optimize them to be powerful or at least competent. You also had to plan a level progression from 1 to 20, decide on that spells and special abilities to pick at each level, and so on.

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong>

The many classes played in different ways, and all complemented each other. A warrior, hybrid, sneaky or skill-based class would play entirely different from a spell-caster Some might use force of arms, some skills – like stealth, diplomacy, forgery, knowledge and survival to name just a few, and some might use magic in many different flavors. The hybrids had a bit of all, like bards, meldshapers, etc.

Once you picked a class and race combo – all with bonuses and penalties, each suited to different tasks – and hopefully, a gender, basic or developed character background and a NORMAL name (no Bob the Barbarian, thanks very much!), it was time to generate stats, either rolling 4 six sided dies (4d6) and dropping the lowest result, or by using the point-buy system, where it would cost more points the higher you raised your stats.

Rolling 4d6 six times, dropping the lowest die result on each roll was alright, there being good odds for both poor and good numbers, usually mixed. Point-buy resulted in perhaps slightly-lower stats overall, but a sure-fire way of getting a much-needed 16 and a +3 bonus to whatever your character's specialty was.

If you didn't have at least decent scores in your classes' primary stats, you could expect to be off to a rocky start, and perhaps, an early demise.

Stats could make or break a character, as they provided a bonus to whatever you attempted, whether it was picking a lock, negotiating with an irate town guard, lying through your teeth, trying to overcome some creature's resistance with a spell, trying to hit someone with a sword, swimming across a river, and many other things, so vast the game was.

A well-built character would exploit whatever advantage it could get, and made sure to have a high primary stat or stats, to ensure greater success on dice rolls.

The rolls of the 20-sided dice, or d20, that were used to determine success of an action by meeting or exceeding a target number set by the Dungeon Master were your biggest enemy. It could lift you to the highest peaks of glory or drop you into the depths of despair, so capricious this type of die was, a true master of fate.

If you wanted to be as efficient as possible, you'd learn to forge your own luck, by providing your fledgling adventurer with all the appropriate bonuses, whether through classes, special abilities, magical effects (temporary or permanent), equipment, skills, terrain and positioning etc.

A well-built character could weather stuff a weaker one would die when facing. An expertly-built character, at high levels, depending on a myriad of factors, could walk with gods, perform miracles, lead armies, found empires, create works of art, cast great magics, slay mighty creatures leaving their mark upon the game world.

A weak character would end as part of a turd dropped by your local diseased goblin, or some other pathetically-weak monster.

* * *

><p>Come to think of it, given the danger level of the new campaign, the penalty in experience his players had (reluctantly) agreed with, and treasure being more difficult to acquire, he'd better print out more character sheets. There were BOUND to be a few PC deaths before the campaign was over.<p>

But before that, lunch.

One bowl of chicken and rice, one packet of cat food and 10 frantic minutes later, two content sighs issued forth. Bellies full, nerd and cat nodded off in an easy-chair, facing the window.

Chris awakened with a start.

He had dozed off. Unacceptable. Rendezvous with the first players was to be at 16:40. And, lo, it was 16:45!

Those ungrateful buddies of his were late. Doubtlessly the miserable rain that was pattering on his living room's windows was partly to blame. Puddles, mud, crooked taxi drivers, the cold and the delays in public transport all made for appropriate excuses. Well then. He had his mobile on him. And no one doubted their ability to use cell phones, should they not find him at home.

Struggling with his woolen greatcoat, Chris stumbled into the main hall, and was met with a very familiar face in a rather large mirror – his own. Platinum blonde hair with a military haircut, gold-rimmed glasses, neatly-shaven except for a rebellious soul patch, strong chin and jaw-line ruined by rotund features but complemented by a Greek nose and kind-looking brown eyes.

He was pushing 1,70 meters and had practiced Tae Kwon Do once upon a time, but he had let himself go, more or less. Jogging, a healthier diet, vitamin supplements and rigorous work-outs had a modest success in getting him back in shape. Not that his shape had ever been great.

He had been the runt of the litter until his little sister Magdalena had come along. His elder brother and sister having moved abroad with their jobs, the parental units doting on the little one - she had just started school, bless her and having abandoned their often great differences which pushed them to heated argument in order to raise the girl, the blond DM felt as if he lived with a group of house mates which were seldom ever home, rather than a family.

The demands of their schedules left little family time, except for dinner time. When they got along it was marvelous however when the adults felt like arguing - then by Jove they would argue, and terrify young Magdalena. No matter the weather, the two of them would leave for the park, and come back, exhausted and with scratched knees, only when they thought the parents had finished with their "grown-up talk". If not, they'd take refuge in his room. By now, Toy Mountain had become a permanent landmark in there.

That's how he eventually bonded with his younger sister.

He was, at last, BIG BRO, and by God and all his angels, he would see her raised right.

Lately, they've been arguing less frequently, but the last times had been ghastly.

The weather hasn't been helping either. Rain had become a near-constant feature, followed by mud and cold winds to hit Bucharest's citizens while they were down. His grimmer and grimmer thoughts were thankfully interrupted by the beep of incoming text messages.

Scanning his eyeballs across his inbox, his fears were confirmed. Those bloody foreigners were going to be late. Even the more punctual ones would be at least 30 minutes overdue. They had decided to move in groups of ones and twos, meeting up on the way. Some were using public transport, others taxis, they were all "so terribly sorry for being tardy" (that was Isabel's text, always with the fancy language that girl), and they all assured him they'd rendezvous in at most 30 minutes, and how eager they were to play.

Hmm. Alfonsina promised kebab all around as an apology. Well. Just as long as his was chicken ,hold the hot sauce and easy on the peppers, it was fine by him. Double hmm. Fedor was being unusually generous and promised spiced red wine all round. The massive mofo was not usually very giving, especially when it concerned booze. Others promised take-away Chinese, Indonesian, and Arabic food, even sweets and soda as compensation for tardiness. They knew his weaknesses.

Today was character creation day and the start of a new campaign, that meant they had crazy ideas they wanted OK'd. His eyes went wide. He was being bribed! That meant the crazy would infest this pristine, incredible, exciting new campaign soon too! Crazy of the brand only his friends could cook up.

Oliver, with his military-otaku mumbo-jumbo, all "fire-teams, danger-close, fire-missions, High Value Targets". They never listened to him. Tanked like a boss.

Isabel, wanting to drag along mules laden with fancy clothes while on adventure and be the belle of the ball. ALWAYS. The mules always died or got lost. Insanely lucky rolls led her to believe she was some kind of master at playing charismatic beauties.

Fedor, playing scary muscle-men and demanding he deal the most damage and intimidate or kill EVERY big monster or villain they came across. Did not always work. Dealt metric ass-tons of damage though.

Selim, insisting he play Good even in a party that played fast and loose with the morality system when it suited them. Oh, and insisting on giving enemies fair trial. And playing something that amounted to a paladin, no matter the class. Often played heal-bot out of sheer niceness.

Charlie, creating yet ANOTHER Afro-American dwarf that came "from tha hood", was being kept down by "The Man" and acquired unlimited amounts of explosives. Two words - premature detonation. Always lived through it. Somehow.

Abigail, making yet another Celtic character, speaking with a hilarious accent and cornering the market on rare magic components and items. Worked infuriatingly well.

Alfie, coming up with jokes that disrupted game-play and screwing everything that moved – monster and non-monster - for sick jollies. Went through characters like toilet paper, but this never bothered her. Had occasional flashes of genius.

Wahya... never played anything other than a wizard, was generally pretty quiet, but she had masterminded a few fiendish plots that REALLY rustled his jimmies. Like the Myth Drannor caper. Chris blamed peer pressure.

Together, they were a hurricane of bad puns, demented plans, talent at character building and sheer dumb luck. However, they were not complete assholes. They just wanted to have fun. They wanted him to keep DM'ing, so they had to make sure he had fun too. Although, sometimes, he just had to repeat this over and over in his mind to convince himself.

He'd have to have a talk with them, one at a time and collectively, and LAY DOWN THE LAW. This was, after all, a COLLECTIVE exercise in story-telling and fantasy war-gaming - not playground pretend for Christssakes.

Seems like those were all the texts he'd received.

No. Wait. There was one more.

He read that last text message, blinked, then re-read it. Weird. Apparently he'd been randomly selected, out of all those registered on the Wizards of the Coast website, to be one of the lucky few to test a new product. It stated they'd send it by post, and that they expected feedback as soon as possible to an enclosed email address.

His first thought was that this was a prank. However the caller ID belonged to no one on his contact list. How would they get his number, why use this elaborate scenario with testing a gaming product? Why not a beta account for an MMO? Why not a Nigerian 419 lottery scam?

Why his phone number, why not an e-mail?

This WAS weird. Usually they'd announce new products, generally rule-books or miniatures, on their front page, with big bold headlines. There was a form you'd have to fill in for beta-testing, IF it was an open beta. He had done no such thing. How would the prankster have his phone number? He had no account on any social network site, used Yahoo or MSN to talk to his siblings abroad, and left a minuscule to non-existent digital paper trail on the Net to follow.

Phishing? Cookies? He had sent his new phone number to his siblings online. But their address remained unchanged, and would remain so for the foreseeable future. God forbid, his siblings were not senile yet, and they had not forgotten where they lived, nor did he mention it online, other than a vague "Bucharest, Romania", in whatever online game had caught his fancy at the time.

So, logic dictated that, even if he were to receive a package, they'd have no idea where to deliver it.

He felt a lump in his throat. Trojans? Could it be? Would a prankster go to all that trouble just for a

weak excuse of a practical joke? Ah well. This mystery he could solve later. A little virus scan, and staying away from dubious sites for the foreseeable future might do the trick. Right now, he had mail to pick up. This counted as one of his daily chores, so he was eager to do this instead of something more labor intensive, like cleaning windows. God did he hate that.

He took the elevator to the tower-block's vestibule. Tasteless reproductions of various nature landscapes, whitewashed walls, potted plants, and rows upon rows of metal mail boxes - this was pretty standard for a Communist-era block of flats kept in good repair. No package in sight though.

Sorting through his mail - bills, bills, Jehovah's Witnesses pamphlet, Ikea catalog - and setting aside the bills from the rest of the dross, he came upon a letter, being addressed to him personally, and bearing the sigils of Wizards of the Coast and Hasbro.

''Bloody hell, this looks for real.'' Chris said aloud.

In trepidation, he opened it.

* * *

><p><em>"Dear Sir,<em>

_You have been randomly selected from among our site's member base to test our newest product, which we believe will revolutionize tabletop fantasy role-play and grant a degree of inter-connectivity and fun never-before-seen. Until now._

_A degree of fun and freedom only made possible with some recent advances in wireless Internet communication, online chat, mapping, character generation, and several other proprietary technologies which we feel are the way forward, will revitalize the tabletop community, and make the hobby more vibrant, more interconnected, and groups of new friends more easy to find than ever before._

_We would feel honored if you and a few friends would spare a few hours of your time to help us iron out the kinks in this quantum leap forward in community-based gaming, and get a taste of the future of Dungeons&Dragons._

_Dice, paper, hard-cover books, pencils and imagination will always be the backbone of tabletop gaming and, we hope, fun in our noble hobby. Please look at our new product as a play-aid, merely designed to add convenience and save time, game on the go, or with friends much farther away than a 5-foot step._

_Your package has been delivered to your local post office (the address was spot-on), to be picked up at your earliest convenience. Enclosed on the tablet PC in your package, you will find your End User License Agreement, and a list of things you may wish to select from when testing our new product._

_Take a leap, if you dare, and gaze upon the marriage of tradition and technology. Gaze upon the future._

_Kind regards,_

_Mrs So-and-so, Head of Development "_

* * *

><p>With a little hope, it would NOT turn out to be a letter bomb.<p>

Well now. IF this was for real, this meant phr33 st00f. He loved phr33 st00f. But there was often a catch. It figures they'd want them to test out the whole system, so that included the tablet PC as well.

The players would be the biggest problem however. Mesmerized by the new techno-toy, they'd play around with it, possibly to the detriment of their gaming session. Fuck immersion, fuck role-playing, fuck narrative. What does this button do and can it display porn and/or generate lulz?

Oh well. He would have liked to think that they were more mature and actually better friends than that, but he had only known then for a year, give or take, and had taken significant persuasion on his part to get his parents' permission to game at home.

They were probably just happy to see him make SOME friends, even though they had been class mates at that private high school for only a few months prior to graduation. They had their own social groups, seldom interacted with one another without him present, and seemed all a bit weird to Chris, even though he'd gotten used to interacting with people of different cultures and countries.

But maybe, just maybe, the first session would nevertheless go reasonably well, despite crazy character builds, bribes of delicious goodies and this weird techno-toy he did not ask for.

Tact, firmness, and gentle reminders that this is, in the end, a cooperative game would win the day.

And prayer. Lots of prayer. You could never have enough prayer.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for the hits everyone, and many thanks for the encouragement of my family, especially my sister as of late, who has kept me going through all this, and have stopped me on occasion from giving up and considering my creation a load of garbage.<em>

_Upon reading the Prologue, which was the only bit of the story online at the time, it was all I could do to halt her torrent of gushing praise. Apparently one of her mates from work (they're game testers for a big company), who is not easily impressed, read this and genuinely liked it._

_Who's a good newbie writer then? WHO'S A GOOD BOY? I do believe I deserve a doggy treat, I do:3_

_Three words of caution to all readers:_

_ONE – this was an introductory chapter. With my slightly above-average writing skills, this is the best I was able to come up with for the time being. I'm saying for the time being, because I may occasionally rewrite chapters, whether minor additions or drastic changes, thus improving them (I hope)._

_TWO – the updates will be slow for the foreseeable future. I am a nerd IN LOVE with computer RPG's, strategy games, tabletop D&D AND who has to study for his college entry exam eventually- or at least try to._

_THREE – while I LOVE praise, and comments like OMG I HEART DIS STORY GIEF MOAR, it's comments that contain helpful, useful criticism on how to improve the story and my writing style that I NEED. What I LOVE and what I NEED are not necessarily the same thing. So please give me what I NEED. Pretty Please?_

_Updates will be slow, but (hopefully) worth it exciting and written with skill._

_At least, I PRAY that they will be, lest I be tracked down, drawn and quartered, impaled, guillotined, tarred and feathered, then boiled alive in whatever fluid happens to be on hand, whether it's monkey semen or Mountain Dew._

_Come to think of it, make it Mountain Dew._

_PLEASE LORD LET IT BE MOUNTAIN DEW._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes 28<strong>**th**** May 2013: **

**Chapter re-uploaded with changes to formatting and minor re-writes. There's honestly nothing more that I could do with Chapter 1, sorry. The sections where rules are being explained will have a big RULES heading above them, and gray line-breaks isolating them from the rest of the chapter. **

**Those already familiar with the game's rules can safely ignore them. Those that do not give a flying dodo dick about the rules can safely ignore them. Those that want to read it, go right ahead. **

**Until next time.**

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong> – 542 words. A**CTUAL STORYTIME** – 2967 words. **Author's Notes** – 436 words.


	3. Introductions, of course,introductions 1

A short trip through the rainy and mud-splattered streets later, he was standing in line at his local post office, his thoughts spinning through his head like laundry in a tumble-dryer. His turn came at last. With anticipation, he showed his ID to the bored teller, signed for his package, and on his way he went.

The trip home passed in a flash. The mystery package occupied his every thought. From its plastic bag sanctuary, it taunted his curiosity in the cruelest ways imaginable. Why would Wizards of the Coast decide, from among their legions of fans, to send to HIM (and maybe a few others) this new product to test? Didn't they have testers for this, professional geeks which got payed (oh most glorious of jobs) to game for hours every day?

"Why us?" he muttered under his breath. Dodging the tidal wave caused by a speeding taxi splashing into a monster-puddle, he ran the last ten meters to his apartment block's entrance. Waiting for the elevator was always something of a torture, especially now of all times. But today, his suffering was prolonged. A neighbor he'd seldom ever spoken to or seen, was moving house. Mountains of cardboard boxes filled to the brim with possessions cluttered the hallway and occupied the elevator, prolonging the agony.

"Maaaaaan, fuck this."

Inwardly cursing the Universe for tormenting him so, the blond DM began ascending the stairs two steps at a time. After an infernal race to his floor, which left him panting and on the verge of an asthma attack, he quickly entered his home. He was shaking with anticipation. The siren call of the unwanted package was too much.

Chris tore his muddy boots off, placing them on a rag to clean later, hanged his greatcoat to dry, and began inspecting the play area. Scrap paper, new character sheets, writing supplies, spare dice, his laptop with notes and rule books on it – check – the house was clean, the cat was asleep and would not bother them, his family was out – check.

Everything was ready. Now, at last, he could indulge his curiosity.

He would _savor _this. With great pomp, he eagerly removed the package from the bag and gently tapped on it. Sounded like a plastic case.

"DING-DONG!"

Door bell. Of all the times someone had to ring that thing...

Muffled arguing could be heard through the door. Upon looking through the peep-hole, he smiled.

The door was opened to an argument already in progress for quite some time.

"Jesus tap-dancing Christ woman, you make me vait in ze line for one hour, arguing vith that bloody Arab at the deli over the quality of the kebab and proper serving etiquette, and ZEN you go und overload me like your personal fucking pack-mule with all this shit." Those two were like two sides of a coin – one rugged, no-nonsense and functional – and one glamorous, gleaming and elegant.

The muscle-bound blond Russo-German, in his woolen coat, arms overloaded with bags of goodies, that was glaring at his companion, was the rugged side - Fedor Helmut Alexeevich, as he introduced himself with a gruff voice – a scary bastard, but chummy enough, once you got to know him.

"Dios mio, did you _see_ how he was handling that abomination he dared call kebab? And I swear I stepped on a roach on the way in! A ROACH, with my designer boots! Regardless, my constructive criticisms were delivered and received, and now perhaps he shall deign to maintain a certain standard of hygiene and courtesy that will do nothing BUT good for his personal and professional life."

She carried on to say, "And lastly, I am a lady, and therefore ill-suited for carrying weight – you surely cannot expect me to carry all that, when you are not lacking in brawn however."

"You're saying I'm all-brawn and no-brains, that right?"

"I never said that, darling."

And then there was the elegant side of the coin – and Isabel was nothing _but _elegant. She could seem to be a snotty daddy's girl to some, but she was definitely nice, if not kind-hearted, and _absolutely gorgeous_. Long, silky black hair, deep brown eyes, the works.

God had had a field day when he created Isabel – then promptly broke the mold. Who knew that there was a naturally-voluptuous Asian chick on the planet? And a tabletop gamer girl to boot. She'd be a prize catch for any lucky male – if they could measure up to her impossibly-high standards in, well, everything. Not to mention willing to wait until after marriage to do The Deed – Isabel was Filipino, and a devout Catholic.

"And not to mention, the meat knives _looked_ clean, but when I asked to inspect them up close, I could see _droplets of sauce_ on them. And on the counter, and on the floor. And, Heaven Forbid that I eat from a locale that is not _spotless_ and _vermin-free_. Who knows if that disgusting insect did not _nest_ there? Oh, the thought of that many-legged filth's spawn infecting the vegetables, the meat, and eventually ME, is too much to bear!"

Annnnd now she was getting hysterical. Her attention to detail and focus on decorum were certainly... maddening at times.

"Oh! Chris darling, how have you been? I'm _very_ sorry we have kept you waiting, and we certainly shall not do so any longer! Right, Fedor?" She hugged an impatient (and now ecstatic) Chris, entered, and added her elegant coat to the wall rack.

Fedor scowled, then said "I recall seeing nothing but gleaming, spotless blades vhen he showed us his knives. Perhaps a little scratched, and zey had one or two small stains on zem, but he had just started cooking, for fuck's sake woman!" He removed his massive woolen coat, and added it to the growing collection of clothing on the rack.

"And I am sure the 'filthy vermin' had neither eggs nor offspring in that bloody shack. The smell, though, was delicious, and now I'm RAVENOUS!" When God had made Fedor, he obviously had taken Conan the Barbarian and had crossbred him with a prehistoric mega-bear. Then he fed the resulting man-beast on a steady diet of nothing but steroids and red meat.

Chris most assuredly did NOT want a hug from him, as he did not think it would be survivable. Nevertheless, he got a handshake, which WAS survivable, if mildly painful."Ahhh, our kind host has come to deliver me from ze Asian harpy", this earned him a venomous glare from the girl, which he took in stride, "and from a few of these bags, or at least I certainly hope so. Careful vith ze bottles, sorry I couldn't find red wine like I promised. But I got that lemon vodka you love so much", he finished with a knowing wink.

Chris chuckled. "One – you guys argue like an old married couple. And two – don't remind me. The memories of what I did on your birthday will haunt me to my grave." The blond DM had managed the heroic feat of consuming half a bottle of said vodka and had gone for a lap around the block, in the nude, in the chilly March evening, wearing nothing but shoes and a Santa Claus hat. Something he would no doubt find amusing much, much later in life, and he'd feel comfortable telling his great-great-grand-kids at a ripe old age of over 100. But definitely NOT something he'd want to be reminded of so soon.

His thoughts were distracted by the delectable smell coming from the paper doggy-bags. Kebab had always been one of his favorites.

He was snapped out of his indecent culinary fantasies by two very impatient gamers.

"We, that is to say, Fedor and myself, have managed to come up with our character concepts – a Rashemi berserker for him, and a Shou Lung elf wizard for me. Will that be OK? If not, we can always think of something else." Well. That didn't sound too broken.

"I understand about having an arcanist and a melee beatstick, but why nations so far apart?"

Fedor was quick to respond. "One – because zey are fun classes, two – nations so far apart because we're making an effort to role-play, which you _always_ nag us to do more of, three - Minsc from _Baldur's Gate_ is a fucking awesome character, oh and Isabel saw that picture of the elven wu jen in Complete Arcane and has the hots for her or something, you cannot expect me to understand women." He continued, "Wiser and better men than me have tried to understand women and have failed, how can I be expected to?"

Nothing too weird about that. All righty then. "Concepts approved, provided I see the build ideas you have – powers, spells, feats and race. I'll expect a level 1 through 20 progression you'll not deviate too much from in a few sessions' time. Does that sounds good?"

They both agreed.

"By the way, I got this weird letter and package today. I'll show you the letter when the gang's all here. But I haven't opened the package yet."

"Well, vat are you waiting for, man? Open it and see vat it is. The odds of it being a letter bomb or anthrax envelope are minuscule I blame the geo-politically stable country you live in, nothing interesting ever happens here, apart from the odd revolution."

"Wow, how... wonderfully reassuring. I'll be sure to come to you when I need a pep talk. But, yeah, what the heck, let's open it."

The three gamers leaned in close.

The offending package was about removed from its plastic bag sanctuary, and its mystery laid bare.

Unfortunately, it was not to be, for the insidious door bell rang once more.

"Oh Lord, not again."

The door was opened to reveal two more offenders. They were quickly forgiven, as they were bringing more snacks.

"Christmas came early this year kids! Goodies! Junk food! Motherfuckin' nectar and ambrosia of the gods! Brought from Mount Olympus itself!" Alfonsina barged in, looking as exuberant as always – a red-headed, green-eyed, slim and pretty Italian tomboy who could scarf down more junk-food that you could dream of, not gain an ounce of weight, and still run circles around most people in gym class.

"Or just from the local deli. Damn girl, you'd think you rehearsed that shit on the way here. And why'd you have to go an' buy nothin' but burgers? Do you know what sort of chemicals they pump into beef cows nowadays? A person's body is their _temple_, and you _do not_ pump shit into a temple." Charlie was rambling on again about the benefits of healthy living, even as he was carrying a bag full of hamburgers. Chris could see his point, but what was life without its little pleasures?

The only thing the muscular African-American would say about his past is that he had been part of the wrong crowd back home. Once his uncle had moved jobs here, he had come to study at the school the group all met in. As a self-styled Buddhist and fitness fanatic, he would often bicker with Alfie about what constituted a healthy lifestyle, among other things.

"Yeah, right, says Mr. Salad Meal. That sauce on your veggies is chock-full of high-calorie goodness, I'll have you know. Come to think of it, I'll swap you for a burger. Haven't had my recommended 5 helpings of rabbit-food for the day."

"If anyone had told me a year and a half ago that I'd be hangin' out with a spastic junk-food maniac like you, I'd have laughed in they faces. Hell, I WAS a junk-food maniac back then."

"Yeah, yeah, but then you saw the Light and unlocked the secrets of the Universe by unmanning yourself and turning into a plant-eater."

"Shit, I guess." They grinned at each other, while adding two anoraks to the burgeoning coat rack.

"High-five, Dungeon Dude. Do not leave us hanging!" Chris obliged his guests.

"I thought you guys were bringing the kebab."

"Fedor texted us and said he and Isabel were on it, so we figured – hey, variety is the spice of life. Presto, burgers! Hey, Salad Meal, bet I can do more push ups than you."

"You're goin' down. These muscles ain't just fo' show."

"That's the idea behind push-ups, dude. Up and down, up and down."

They began their race in earnest, each pushing hard for the win.

"Hey guys, Fedor and Isabel are here already. So, they're playing a berserker and a wizard. As per our agreement, I need to know what character concepts you two have."

"Oh, an illumian binder/truenamer/shadowcaster gestalt. Gonna call this combo a Witch Of The Threefold Path. Funky, eh? Versatility is her middle name" answered Alfie nonchalantly.

Yikes. It had begun. The crazy he so feared, it was here.

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong>

Gestalt means that Alfie would effectively play three characters rolled into one. A monstrosity such as this could gain full levels in three separate classes at the same time, and where aspects overlapped, it gets the best of both worlds. The larger Hit Dice (to roll for hit points , the best base attack bonus, the best saves would be chosen from the classes which where being combined, and the resulting character would also get the abilities, spells and powers of those classes.

For example, a gestalt fighter/wizard would have the high hit points high Fortitude saves, bonus feats, weapon& armor proficiency and excellent attack bonus of a fighter, in addition to the powerful spells, high Will saves and bonus feats of a wizard, the highest number of skill points of the two, and their lists of skills, combined into one. From this unholy union, the gestalt character would have good combat ability, endurance, strong magic, and a reasonable variety of skills, nullifying many of the weaknesses which a single-classed fighter or wizard would suffer from.

And this is just one rather tame example. The fighter/wizard still could not enjoy the luxury of casting spells in heavy armor - and would have to wear lighter, enchanted mithral armor - which could be expensive. Nor could this build use a wide variety of skills, and would have to specialize in the various fields of knowledge of the wizard, or the more down-to-earth skill set of the fighter.

And the player of this gestalt would still be limited by the action economy – of one standard or attack action, one move or move-equivalent action, one swift or immediate action, and a very small number of free actions per turn. You could attack or cast a spell, drop an item, shout a warning, or do things which required a similar amount of effort, or blow your round by casting a spell with a long casting time or just full-attacking.

The game is defined by how much you could do during your turn to affect the end-result of a battle, confrontation or challenge. The key is to find out how to do more and do it better, either through tactics, forethought, or by using spells or powers.

In conclusion, this was a character-building option reserved for games either with too few players, or for high-power games where the rules, dice, and Dungeon Master took no prisoners and showed no mercy.

* * *

><p>"Umm, Alfie?"<p>

Without missing a beat, she responded, "Yes, dear host?"

"Don't you think you should play something a little more... well, normal?"

"Awww, you're no fun. And you DID say you'll allow us to build, _within reason_, nearly anything we wanted, as long as we agreed to an experience penalty. And a treasure penalty. Which is not sexy, by the way."

"So I did. Ehh, I won't go back on my word now. So, Charlie, what abomination do you have for me? Another pyromaniac dwarf?"

"Nah, I'm playing a caster. All that power and flexibility, plus fire on command. No more messing around with fuses an' shit. Gold dwarf cleric, raised by shield dwarves. Dreadlocks, puns, axe and shield."

"As long as it's not gestalt, I can live with it."

Fedor glanced at his phone, and scowled. "At long freaking last, Baron Bald and Little Red Crazy Hood have arrived. Now if ze others vould grace us with their esteemed presence, we could finally begin."

"Baron Bald? Gee, thanks, homie. At least it's a new one this time."

"Little Red Crazy Hood? Dear me, Hulk, I didn't know you cared!"

They finished their showdown, each claiming victory over the other.

Alfie noticed the mystery package. "Wait, why are you all staring at that plastic bag for? Don't tell me, you've gone all cultist and are bowing down to the Bag God."

Fedor could not resist. "Blood for the Bag God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!" all said with a huge grin.

Isabel was not amused. "If 'Lord Bag Cultist' is quite finished, the others are on their way actually. I'm certain they have sent text messages in advance warning of their tardiness, have they?"

"Yes actually, but – we were just about to open this package I got. It arrived with a strange letter."

The letter was read aloud for those present, and set their minds in motion.

Alfie responded first. "Maybe they printed the wrong address on the envelope? I dunno, that's what I think."

"It's possible. Maybe it was meant for one of my neighbors To be honest, I haven't checked yet. I mean, what am I supposed to do, knock on everybody's door and ask them if they signed up online to test an experimental gaming product?"

"Worth a try. Well, I think it wouldn't be fair to just let the matter slide. I mean, takin' stuff meant for another is just wrong."

Isabel jumped in. "I agree with Charles on this."

"Just Charlie. I _hate_ the name Charles."

"Quite. You owe it to your conscience to try."

"Hmm, I suppose so..."

"To hell vith that. I say tear open ze sucker and sate your curiosity. It has been gnawing at you, hasn't it? Plus, I'm curious as well." The living room fell silent. All eyes were on Chris. Some were motivated by altruism, others by self-interest, but he had received the package. It was his call.

He felt their eyes upon him. And made up his mind.

"Not knowing what's up with this package is driving me nuts. Why the hell have I been putting off opening this thing so far? I say we open it."

"DING-DONG!"

"OH GOD WHY."

* * *

><p><em>Hello readers. <em>

_First off, WOW, my first two reviews. Thank you very much Luca and Sister Fucker for reading my little creation, I'm glad you enjoyed it, and thanks for the criticisms. Which I assure you I will be using, especially since they are valid suggestions. =P_

_See? This is what I said in my last installment of Author's Notes – give me what I NEED and not necessarily what I LIKE. I've decided to split Chapter 2 in half, because it's long and because I'm a little burned-out from having to squeeze out an uncharacteristically-large update so fast. I know, I'm lazy, unprofessional, lack dedication etc. etc., the list goes on. Mea culpa. _

_Not to mention that you can only introduce so many new characters in a single chapter until it gets very dull and you just wish it will ALL END SOON DEAR GOD MAKE IT STOP SOO BORING. In Part 2 you will see more of the same – you will meet four other players, and a first Big Reveal – the contents of the Mystery Package__(tm)__!1one_

_Until then, stay alive out there. I know I'll try._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes 28<strong>**th**** May 2013:**

**Much paragraph formatting and minor rewriting done. Overall easier on the eyes and brain to read.**

**RULES** - 401 words. **ACTUAL STORYTIME** – 2696 words. **Author's Notes** – 240 words.


	4. Introductions, of course,introductions 2

The blond DM stormed off to answer the door. It took much willpower not to grit his teeth or swear. The doorbell hated him, it was official, and it had found an excellent opportunity to torment him. He'd received a strange new gaming product, complete with a letter from Wizards of the Coast – for which he'd_ never asked_, arriving players kept delaying his opening of the package and magnifying his curiosity. In the end, he didn't even have an opportunity to talk for a nanosecond about what the new campaign would be all about. He really preferred opening the damn thing with all players present, so explanations wouldn't have to be repeated for new arrivals.

He rubbed his temples to relieve encroaching stress. He'd known what he was in for when he'd accepted an 8-man group. He'd _have_ to ask for a volunteer to step forth as co-DM and help him control this... pack of loonies. As soon as they'd all arrive, he would have to restore order and pitch his campaign ideas to the group. This hobby would consume much of his weekend and free time, so the very least they could do is listen – and get to gaming.

A vivid conversation was audible through the door, which was opened to present an unusual duo – a blond British girl and a tall Saudi male.

Abby kept on singing praise to the Lovecraft mythos, while Selim was nodding politely.

"...and you will not believe the twist at the end. Christ, what a _mind-fuck_. You have GOT to try Lovecraft mate, he will put _dread_ into your soul. Oh hey Chris. Glad to see you."

There was a bizarre symmetry in the duos of players that had showed up already, beyond merely boy-girl, made up of contrasting cultures and nationalities.

And so far, the symmetry was staying true to itself.

Abigail was of British nationality – from the cold north of the island. She bragged that her mercenary ancestors had come from Ireland initially, serving one English king or another, and had forged a life for themselves near the Scottish border. Blond-haired, blue eyes, a metal-head, a huge H.P. Lovecraft fan, she was enamored with Celtic culture and would wax lyrical about the virtues of her heritage. Chris would try and raise the argument once in awhile that ancestry was hard to prove even for major royal families, like the Merovingians, but she either did not listen or care.

"Glad you could make it. Please, come in."

"As-Salamu Alaikum! Glad to be here. Sorry for being late."

"Glad you're here but I'm sort of eager to begin, so let's cut to the chase."

The need to begin the game before any more distractions got in the way felt like an itch deep within that he could not scratch.

And there was Selim – one of the nicest people in the group. He was a tall Saudi Arabian lad – who never let his status as a rich kid go to his head. He was always there to help, in deed or with a kind word, a gentle soul with no mean bone in his body. Enamored with poetry and weirdly enough, internet memes, he would often spout a meme or another appropriate to the situation, although never in a formal setting.

They offloaded their cargo – soft drinks and assorted nuts – while making small talk with their host. Chris could hardly contain his excitement – six down, two to go. The faster they'd arrive, the less time it took to get pre-game socializing and snacks out of the way, and they'd get to exploring strange new worlds and battling against mythological beasts of yore.

He pushed down his excitement and said nonchalantly, "Damn weather. I should really set out more rags for you guys to store your shoes. By the way, did you see anymore of the group on the way here?"

"Sorry mate, they either took a detour or they're runnin' late. By the way, what _are_ the guys gawking at over at the table?"

"Hey, the Prophet instructs: seek knowledge. So let's ask them."

As the new arrivals were showered with greetings and jokes, Chris was left staring at his hallway, and thinking. Something was bugging him. Usually the others would get either him or Wahya to do any research they needed, and generally make up characters on the spot with little planning. Have they actually started researching on their own? This merited investigation.

Might as well see what the horde of guests was up to.

Same day, same argument. Abby and Selim had been filled in as to the surprise package their host received. Seems he had missed it all bar their "closing statements."

"Und zis is vhy I think ve should just. _Open. Ze frelling. Thing!_"

Hello – the argument was still on-going. The package had enthralled them as well.

"Geez Fed, you're slipping into Hulk-speak again."

"I vas slipping back to my RUSSIAN accent. When I become passionate about somethin', I embrace ze vhite-hot passion of my Varangian ancestors. When I vant to argue something out, I embrace ze machine-like logic of my GERMANIC roots. Plus, variety is the spice of life."

Isabel intervened as peace-maker. "I can see your point. I believe that what Alfie is TRYING to say is that she is not familiar enough with either language to tell the difference in your normal speech, what accent you are embracing at the moment and so on. He meant no insult."

"No offense but, I always thought that embracing your Germanic roots meant going all berserker on someone. The image of the German people as being industrious, efficient and logical is due in part to the efforts of the Krupp family to import foreign business practices in the... 19th... century." Chris stammered a bit before the end, being given a full broadside of Fedor's annoyance, for an unwelcome infodump.

Abby intervened to calm things down. "I guess his pronunciation is slipping 'cause he's very curious about that package we've been discussing. That and he's pissed – we haven't reached consensus yet."

"You mad?" said Selim reflexively.

All eyes turned to him. He felt ashamed. Abby had soothed tempers and he was shitting up her work. "Sorry," he began with a charming smile, "that one slipped past me. I apologize. Have you asked Chris? He's the one that got the package, in the end." Tempers which were close to flaring started cooling off. After all, it was hard to stay mad at Selim. It was like staying mad at a puppy. Which could spout memes.

And he HAD used it to great effect. Everyone was giggling – situation defused via a little humor and diplomacy.

Alfie's attention span was flagging, however. She was here for fun and fun was lacking – aside from memes that is. She replied in a tired tone, "Man, we've _been_ over this before. No return address, official-looking letter, he didn't ask for it BLAH BAH BLAH. We four have voted two for, two against. Chris was SET to be the tie-breaker when you guys arrived."

"I thought we all agreed it's his. He gets to decide. Why are we even VOTING?" replied Charlie.

Isabel turned to Chris as she asked "Well? Will you open it or not? We can't agree on it. And it the end, it has your name on it."

"I made up my mind. We're opening it right now, and THEN after we're done inspecting the contents, we are going to _finally_ start our game before I die of old age."

His decision had unanimous approval. Screw waiting. Finally, this torment would end, his curiosity would be sa-

"DING-DONG!"

_Curse this Universe and curse this doorbell!_ He promised to himself that he'd do terrible things to the ruddy thing after Game Night. He could always replace it out of his pocket. At least everyone was here.

"WHAT THE FU-" Chris felt the incoming headache – like a nuclear detonation inside his skull.

"Ease up man, it's just a doorbell. Probably just our last two guys. Here, you just relax in this comfy chair, let me get the door. A'ight? No sweat."

Chris mustered the gratitude to thank him as he sat down. At least he'd be rid of this headache soon.

A female voice rang out from the hallway. "Hey, don't you start without me! I have my character concept and I'm rearing to go! You will not believe – oh hey guys – how much reading I had to do on... you know I hate it when you stare. Makes me feel self-conscious."

First one in was Wahya – now she was a genuinely rare thing in Chris' view – a girl well-versed in the rules of the game, almost unhealthily-so. A pretty Native American with glasses, decked out in crystals, feathers and charm-bracelets, she was as avid reader of just about anything happened to take her fancy, which included New Age mysticism – faith healing, auras and so on. She was sociable enough, just that she usually preferred books to people – a feeling Chris could relate to.

"Seriously, stop that. It's annoying."

The seconds kept ticking away.

And they would not stop.

Eventually, someone had to give. And that somebody was Alfie. She could not contain it any longer and burst into laughter, along with the whole table.

"Oh, you. Just for this, next time, I'd like to see _you_ optimize characters."

It was a game they'd play when the last person, or persons drifted in on Game Night. Tons of fun for the whole family.

Chris' eyes informed his brain that someone had suddenly appeared in the chair next to him. He was a bit startled – along with the whole table."

Ninety percent of the time, the brain doesn't actively see – it's being fed a picture of what it's _expecting_ to see. Your eyes saw me but payed no attention, as they were distracted. What's on the fantasy menu for tonight, DM?"

"New campaign, I'll tell you all about it after you're done with your socializing. I'll have no interruptions spoil the reveal."

Fedor was having none of it. "I think ve vould all appreciate it if you entered a room like a normal person, instead of like some fuckin' wannabe-ninja! Nice one though – _don't take it as encouragement to pull more shit like this_."

"Quite alright. I'll pull something different next time."

The last arrival was Oliver. Of middling height, weight and slender build, the South-African teen looked like any Average Joe Caucasian. Except for a bony face, dark brown eyes, aquiline nose and the arrogant walk of a man with supreme confidence in himself, and movement so controlled as if he was fearful of wasting even an ounce of energy. He socialized with the group enthusiastically, but almost like he was a robot that had never observed people. Hence stunts like these. He seemed almost apologetic afterward, like a puppy caught doing something bad.

The blond DM felt his headache begin to subside as the players started making small-talk, ignoring Oliver's sneaking into the room like a freaking wraith because, hey, that was considered _normal_ for him. Many people would be commenting on this further, some more intolerant would give him hell for this – it was a measure of how the group had eventually bonded over the year they'd known each other. He let himself be immersed in the cozy glow of being in the company of friends, of not being alone, of simply being accepted. He likened this feeling to being immersed in a flowing river of warm feelings.

No wonder humans were social creatures – no wonder conformism was so prized.

He rose to his feet in a suitably dramatic manner. The chatter, eventually, died down.

"To game, or not to game. That is the question. Well? Do we game today or not? Because, let me tell you, I have _plans_ for this campaign." said he, rubbing his hands in glee.

"Easy now, don't go all Shakespeare on us. Even the Bard had to contend with his actors... and the crowd. Of which we are both." There was Abby...

"Don't forget how chaotic this group can be. Players can be likened to inherently random variables, liable at any time to throw a spanner in the works. Sort of like entropy in information theory." And there was Wahya...

"And besides, ve have _plans_ for these characters. There's damage to be done, monsters to be butchered, and flora to be fertilized." And there was Fedor... with an... evil smile...

"And seriously, stay away from the railroading. We generally like your main quests an' all, but damn man, a little freedom of choice is a good thing to have." And there was Charlie...

"Don't worry, I hear you. Your DM has a cunning plan. I've read online on how to do sandbox DM'ing. I understand how it works, and I am well-prepared this time around. Very well-prepared."

Isabel said, "Wow, you sound... prepared. We will not question your method, but are you anxious for any particular reason? Sorry if I seem a bit..."

"Direct?"

"I was going to say rude, but direct works fine."

"Not really. Just totally _psyched_. Not that improv is bad or anything, I like it just fine, but I'd like to be more professional about this. I say if it's worth doing, it's worth doing well."

He examined his group. They were all paying attention to him. It felt good to be back in the DM's seat, be the center of attention once more. He allowed himself a smile...

"Hey, how about this freaking package you got? I'd just like to see this resolved. No offense, but the curiosity is really gnawing at me." And there was Alfie. She had a divine gift for derailing a conversation.

… and reality reasserted itself. He'd nearly forgotten about the damned thing.

"Seriously, I seem destined to keep repeating myself. It's like, my FATE or something." And so she filled them in _yet again_ as to how Chris had come in possession of this _mysterious package_ (!1!?), and finally, on their opinions on what to do about it.

In the end, after agreeing that voting on it was a goddamn stupid idea, it was time to get to the bottom of their little mystery.

"About fucking time, too." grumbled Chris. The others nodded their assent.

The plastic case held a padded inner lining, with spaces for everything from pencils, erasers, dice bags, spare paper, to micro-USB cables, 10 crisp, stapled Deluxe Edition character sheets – but the most interesting items where the dice trays and the tablet PC. Everything was of the highest workmanship, and the group crowded around those two, stating their admiration.

"Ooooh, spare dice! Red, my favorite color. I, Fedor Helmut Alexeevich, lay claim to zis set! Touch zem under pain of torture!"

"Whatever happened to those mauve dice you had last time?" asked Abby.

"They rolled very poorly and had to be... disciplined. Vith hammer und blowtorch. I cannot have dice that disobey orders on the field of battle."

"...Dice pogrom aside, I haven't even seen this model anywhere else but here. Tablet sales are a niche market at best for now."

"Mein Gott, look at zat _gorgeous_ black exterior. I vonder if it's got Wifi too?"

"I believe it would go _lovely_ with these designer boots I have back at the apartment. Different pair from these, you see. The black on those is much more pronounced."

"Wow, look at these trays... they're made up of oodles of micro-cameras encased in scratch-proof plastic." Wahya had already picked up the user manual and was devouring it, eager to learn more about these new toys. "The manual states that they have wireless capability, micro-USB ports, and that they're meant to cut down on cheating in long-distance games while preserving the feeling of rolling real dice."

"Girl, that's fascinating and all, but would you look at this touch-screen! _My God, it is so sexy_. Capacitive touch-screen, with sensitive multi-touch capability – I can just pinch my fingers like so on it, and it zooms in. THIS IS SO SCI-FI, I WANT ONE!"

Wahya looked up from her study of the user manual. "How exactly do you know so much about these things?"

Alfie shrugged. "I did a little research on them while window-shopping. If I'm gonna buy one, might as well have all the bells and whistles I want."

Selim frowned. "My parents have talked to a few friends in the IT industry who say such tablets are a few years away from entering sales, and yet, here it is. Not even my tablet back home has so many features. We'd best be careful not to break it, I think it's an..."

"Integral part of the system, yes, yes, we'll be careful." Alfie's eyes were fixed on the black techno-jewel. Her strict dad wouldn't get one, she never managed to save for one as she had... expenses, and this was her best chance to play with one so far.

"Switch on!"

The group nearly knocked their heads together as they crowded around the black tablet.

It began loading its operating system, and, after a short wait, it displayed an elegant cerulean digital scroll unfolding with a message.

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><p><strong>Loading Complete. Vestri Semita Specto - Your Path Awaits.<strong>

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><p>"Awfully dramatic, isn't it?" commented Oliver.<p>

The desktop was decorated with aesthetically-pleasing cerulean geometric forms, and several icons. My Documents, My Computer, an antivirus program, Network Connections, Recycle Bin, Internet Explorer, the online play interface and dice roller program were all of them.

They read quickly through the End User License Agreement and determined what needed testing.

Chris was intrigued by the tablet, but he had never seen dice rolling trays before. It was an ingenious– and expensive – concept. The many micro-cameras would keep track of the number that was rolled by reading the number that was on the exact opposite side of what you rolled. If you rolled a 6, for instance, on a d6, it would read the 1 on the side facing the camera, and show up 6 on-screen as a result. Or it could read any other number off of any other face of the die, and determine from memory what number came up for the player.

"Let's test the dice trays next." Done and done. One tray was hooked up via micro-USB cable, the dice roller program was "double clicked" via finger, and they got ready a humble six-sided die, a d6.

He did the honours, and rolled. Six. An auspicious start.

* * *

><p><strong>.12%<strong>

**Integrating dice roller. Complete.**

**.12%**

* * *

><p>It was Alfie's turn next. Her request was not at all unusual, considering this was Alfie. "Let's test the internet connection and media player next. You have a good idea what I mean by that, so squeamish people, cover your ears." said she with a mischievous smile.<p>

"I have a good idea vhat she'll play and I vant _in_."

"I have a vague idea what she'll play, but I suppose it can't be worse than last time." said Oliver. The rest exchanged meaningful looks. Those not interested moved away.

Isabel was disgusted. "Whenever you insist that we should really look at a video, it is either indecent, disgusting or crass. But whenever I suggest that we watch something more wholesome, you claim it's boring. If the choice is between indecency or boredom, I'll stick to my audio books thank you very much." She said, turning her back. "Please do let me know when it's over."

Alfie paid her no mind as she typed in the address of a well-known porn site. Yes, you did not misread that.

"Vhat perversions have you uncovered then?"

"This bitch. Check her out." The video loaded and started playing.

"Oh my sweet Lord, she's performing obscene acts on a teddy bear with a..." Oliver was a little taken aback. Stare too long in the abyss and the abyss stares back.

"Yes, I do believe she is." The moaning and other dirty noises could be heard by everyone in the vicinity.

Isabel put on a stoic face and turned up the volume on her iPod. Wahya stuffed her fingers in her ears and pretended to be interested in the user manual. Everyone else just ignored it and carried on like nothing was out of the usual.

Chris zoned out on the obscene noises. Thankfully Alfie didn't push the limits of decency very often.

What _was_ important was to finish some of the testing as per the EULA, make characters, and damn well start playing.

There was Charlie and his incense sticks again. He claimed they purified the atmosphere and removed any negative energies in the area, but it didn't convince him – if it hadn't been analysed in a lab somewhere by people with many PhD's, Chris did not put much stock in it, generally.

He approached his friend which was murmuring a prayer as he waved the sticks in the air.

"For good luck?" He hadn't wished to use such a sarcastic tone and felt a little sorry for it.

"Well, that and to relieve some stress." He didn't seem to notice the sarcasm. "My brother's coming home on leave from Afghanistan. He enrolled in some private military company a while ago, to escape the hood." The cycle of poverty and violence for Charlie's family was halted when his brother could not take it any more and signed up with a mercenary company headed for that unfortunate country, then Charlie's uncle had taken him away on an extended stay overseas.

His face had disappointment written all over it. "He's coming home to visit the family and I'm gonna fucking miss it. Haven't seen him in over a year, man. Who knows how he's changed? I mean, will I even recognize him?"

Chris was determined not to let down a friend in need. "My grandpa lived until I was ten, and told me all sorts of stories, as he had fought in World War Two. After an Allied bomber raid killed his brother, he found an injured, scared Allied pilot near a crash-site... and he killed him. Gentle man like him, I never would've thought. He regretted his deed two weeks before he died. I'm glad he did."

He took a deep breath and said "He is visiting your family to remind himself of what many good men and women are sacrificing in order to protect – and that it's worth it. His family is his anchor in the mad world of war, and I am sure you will find that he is still your brother, no matter what emotional baggage he may be carrying. Besides, you can definitely speak to him via phone. It's 2008 for goodness' sake."

Charlie's hopes were raised by this. "Thanks man," said he with a weak smile," I wish my uncle thought like that. Not about phones, I mean."

The obscene noises eventually subsided. "For the record, we're done. Does anyone else want a crack at this beauty?" After several quick games of "rock paper scissors", the next lucky people moved onto using the tablet. After taking his own turn and marvelling at the black techno-jewel, Chris spent some time idling by, waiting patiently for the others to finish, simply staring at the old-fashioned inter-war wooden chairs and dining table they were using. He had never appreciated what workmanship had gone into making such -

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><p><strong>..24%<strong>

**Analysing**** users. Integrating. Complete. **

**..24%**

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><p>A hand touched his shoulder and he looked up with annoyance. "I hope we can at long last start, y'know, GAMING, as opposed to screwing around."<p>

It was Wahya. She seemed apologetic for some reason. "I know you've put a lot of effort into getting together a game for us, and we appreciate that a whole lot, but the thing is..." she trailed off.

"Yes, Wahya, what is it?" He had the sneaking suspicion he would not like what he would hear next, as cliché as that seemed.

She gathered her courage, and spit it out. "Aside from myself, the group has only the bare bones of character concepts. No builds, no research, nothing. I know I can put something together for them with a little work and collective brainstorming. I hope you're not too disappointed in us."

The group had taken to admiring the ceiling and their surroundings. Only a few dared meet his eyes. They'd had ample time to build new characters and learn a fucking thing or two about the rules and they had not. They now had to study a crash-course in Character Building 101 in maybe an hour and he was most assuredly NOT a happy bunny.

"Well, how in God's green earth did you, Alfie, know about gestalt rules? And about caster classes from the Tome of Magic? And Isabel about wu jen?" He could have gone on, but he felt that he had made his point.

"Oh, for the love of... You know, you're the best at optimizing. You have my laptop, internet connection, library of gaming supplements. Ask them what abominations they want to create, and get cracking please. I'll just stretch on the sofa here for a bit to rest my tortured mind. Please, wake me up when they're reasonably happy with what they've got."

They got busy with an air of resignation.

"Players, I am disappoint." He leaned heavily on the couch and braced for impact with a migraine. "Oh God, will these distractions never cease?"

* * *

><p><em>They will end, Chris. One day. <em>

_Hi again. I can't for the life of me figure out how in the holy hell is this story even READ any more given that all I've written so far is a creepy, atmospheric prologue (and I had help from Chris with that one), and a few introductory chapters of basically, "faffing about"._

_I have no excuse except my lack of experience, crippling self-doubt, and most likely my incompetence._

_I swear to you that I shall do my very best with this story, even if my very best is still pretty shit, that I will not abandon it, damn the consequences, and that it WILL be great or at the very least acceptable, if not even enjoyable in the end._

_I am going all the way, and I thank in advance anyone that's willing to put up with any drivel I produce, so long as I keep getting constructive criticism and take it into account._

_The intro chapters are the way they are because this will be a LONG book, because the whole story will be told in it, such as it is, and because I will be doing no sequels. I don't expect it ever to be published due to copyright issues, and I'm fine with that. I'm writing it mainly out of obligation to a friend and out of enjoyment. I generally don't go back on my word._

_Shit is getting done as of this chapter. They opened the Mysterious Package(tm) and toyed around with its contents, and next chapter is showing character creation and the first honest-to-God game session. We are getting there people, slowly but surely. _

_Over and out._

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><p><strong>Author's Notes 28<strong>**th**** May 2013:**

**Chapter updated with improved formatting, dialogue and descriptions make slightly more sense, the stupid part about voting cut out. I know, I'm guilty of info-dumping, so sue me. I'm doing research on how to avoid it, trust me. **

**I'd like to request constructive criticism on: **

**-the dialogue and behaviour of the characters. Is it believable? **

**-flow of the story. Is it easy to read? Is the sentence structure clunky? What would you rewrite and how/why?**

**-the characters. Are they realistic? Are they likeable? They're not? Why?**

**-how would you do descriptions and/or narrative differently?**

**Many thanks for reading yet again.**

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><p><strong>ACTUAL STORYTIME<strong> – 4210 words. **Author's Notes** – 383 words.


	5. The Abominations Unveiled

Chris was having another one of those weird dreams of his, the ones where you cannot tell if it's real or just the Universe being its usual fucked-up self. In the dream, or alternate reality – he was a baby kraken, floating on a river of molten gemstone, rocked gently along by the vibrational frequencies of the mother-dimension. Just as he was admiring his turquoise tentacles –

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><p><strong>…<strong> **36%**

ANa_lyz_ing **pers**onALit_IES_… i_ntegr_a**ting** … **Complete within acceptable parameters.**

**…** **36%**

* * *

><p>- his universe became one of pain. He awoke with a start. It's as if someone had taken a scalpel to his soul as he was strapped to an operating table, and had cut it open dispassionately, just to see what made it tick. What in the heck had been that ear-splitting noise he'd heard a few moments ago? Or had it been because of the pain? Had they been one and the same? He rose from his inter-war sofa unsteadily.<p>

"Are you finished? Hey, what's with you guys... so it wasn't just me."

Everyone was holding their heads in their hands, with various pained expressions.

"Did everyone just feel that? Are you alright?" Selim started fretting over his fellow gamers.

"Ow. Maybe it was... ahhh I don't know, a solar flare? There's no reason why there shouldn't be any in autumn. I mean, the conduit which facilitates the charged particles from the Sun to human disturbance, is the very same conduit which steers Earth's weather through the Magnetic Field on Earth, and also through the magnetic fields around humans." Wahya was holding back tear of pain, even as she was spouting a possible explanation.

"Beats getting shot with rubber bullets. I figure, if it was a solar flare, it was a big one." Oliver blinked blearily. Fedor's voice was suddenly filled with respect."You vere shot vith rubber bullets? You're suddenly a lot cooler now. Vhen? How?"

"When I was 14. Never accept a dare from your idiot friends to spray a tag on the gate of a paranoid rich guy. They take security dead-serious in Johannesburg."

"I'll survive, Selim, thank you." Isabel answered regally."Chris, you look awful. And you were tired to being with."

"Head-aches and I are old friends. But how are you guys feeling? I suppose it could have been a solar flare in the end. Hold on, let me check the news." As Chris switched on the TV and browsed the news channels, everyone had finished moaning about their head-aches. It was of no help, as usual – if there had been been a major solar flare hitting the planet's magnetic field, it would have shown up on the news, sure as hell. Still, news agencies weren't perfect, or all-knowing.

The explanation was accepted readily by all present.

"We'll be fine, I'm sure. Maybe we're too stressed lately. Well, it took us long enough, but we're done, such as it is." Wahya was bouncing back just fine; if you got the girl to talk about one of her passions, she'd be dead to the world and just yammer away happily. And she looked quite enthusiastic right now.

"We've created a balanced enough team using Dungeons&Dragons 3.5 edition rules. All you need to do is approve, modify or reject them. They actually managed to make this whole process go a lot smoother. I do think they've learned a lot today. Why, only a few months ago..."

Chris held up his hand. "Thank you, Wahya. We'll start in the order in which you arrived, meaning Isabel and Fedor present their freaks first. No, _no arguing_ over who should go first, just flip a coin, for goodness' sake."

The coin was flipped, Isabel won, and Fedor sat back down grumbling about man-hating Lady Luck.

She took her character sheet, rose with a flourish... and for Chris, his fears came true soon after.

"Feast your eyes on my creation – Changying Liu, the paragon moon elf female wizard, adopted daughter of a great nobleman of Shou Lung. Gaze into her hypnotic green eyes – pools of sheer beauty – and fall to her awesome power. Inheritor of the traditions of the wu jen, master of..."

"Stop, stop, STOP! I won't hear another word of this flowery speech until you tell me _who_ this Changying Liu is. Who is she, as a person – and not just a little background, class, and appearance. Why is she special?"

"Well, I was thinking of basing her personality on myself."

"Playing yourself? Seriously? Because the Isabel I know took that role in the school play last year and made it her own. She performed it in her own way, utterly different from any other actor that ever played that role before. And did a damn good job."

"More like playing with yourself, am I right? joked Alfie. No-one paid attention to the joke.

Chris took a deep breath, and went on. "There's nothing bad with pouring a little of yourself into a character you like, whether it's a game or anything else. But the character has a life of their own as well. It's a different person from you." He turned to the others. "Put your imaginations to the test, and make that person, that avatar you've created come to life. Let them be more than a simple collection of stats."

The others seemed to agree. Isabel was slightly flustered. "Well, alright. I'm certain I can think of a good personality in short order, even _if_ I have to base it a little on myself."

"There you go. Wait. Did you just say, _paragon_ moon elf?"

"Yes I did."

Hello headache! "Oh no, ohoho, _hell no_. Paragons grant stat bonuses, and as an elf, you already have two of those, Intelligence and Dexterity. You chose wizard, probably THE most powerful class in the game, so late-game power will more than balance out early-game weaknesses. Such as it is, your character is unbalanced."

"Fair enough." Isabel nodded sagely. "I'm willing to drop paragon and go with a plain moon elf if you'd do me a favour " "And what's that?" She was up to something, Chris knew it.

"Allow Changying to cast wu jen spells as well. The wu jen is a magician with an eastern flavour, and it fits with her concept _perfectly_. Oh you simply must!"

* * *

><p><strong>GAMING SLANG<strong>

This is how it happened – when a campaign would start breaking down, in his eyes – before it even began. The players bargaining for power, for ever more broken, unbalanced toys. Whether it was intentional or not, Chris could never tell. Gamers called this "power creep" - in which new content added to a game would be more powerful and useful that the old stuff – whether it was a trading card game, tabletop or computer game, power creep marched on like a blight. Who knew how wu jen spells would affect the game in this instance, what insane new tricks they brought to the playing field?

* * *

><p>What about the others? Could they plan something similar?<p>

"I reserve the right to modify and balance spells and spell-combos should they become excessive." said Chris with an even tone.

"You mean useful. I know I said 'go ahead and modify what you don't like. But you can become pretty nerf-happy when we pull off something cool." This came from Wahya of all people. She didn't seem happy with his decision.

The blond DM was peeved."I thought you were supposed to be on my side! You know how easy it's to break the game! For all its merits, it's like the game designers put this stuff together without ever looking at how the content of one supplement interacts with another! Look up Pun-Pun sometime."

"Look, I agree that the game can be wonky sometimes, and it's not fun if there's no challenge. Please run whatever modifications you're doing by us first. This is, after all, a cooperative game."

"And pulling outrageous stunts is what draws us to the game." added Charlie.

"Done deal. A good DM communicates with his players and makes the game fun, and that's what I am. Well, what I try to be."

"Are you two quite finished vith ze nerd-sex?" Fedor's blunt words made the two resident nerds blush, if only a little. "I hope you are, 'cause now it's MY turn."

"Do you _have_ to be so rude? It was plain Dungeon Master – player negotiation, not _nerd-sex_ as you put it." said Selim reproachfully. "Why do you twist everything out of context?"

"I call every bit of long-winded nerd-speak 'nerd-sex' for ze shock-factor. I'm sick of their gibberish und ready to begin, _if you vould be zo kind_." Fedor's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

The blond DM recovered first. "Don't have a cow. OK, shoot."

"Bang. Get zis. Take Conan ze Barbarian, multiply bad-ass factor by twenty, give him ein huge magical sword, frenzied berserker levels, and you have a reasonable idea of what Stribog can achieve. Melee beatstick und strongman extraordinaire." Fedor was even scarier than usual when he was enthusiastic about something. It was like watching a bipedal shark learning how to smile.

"Named after **Stribog** in the Slavic pantheon. He is the god and spirit of the winds, sky and air. He is said to be the ancestor (grandfather) of the winds of the eight directions. The etymology of the name is disputed." Wahya could really speak fast when there was general knowledge to dispense. She got odd looks from everyone. She shrugged. "I thought you'd get used to this by now. I keep a selection of works on human mythology on my night stand. Light reading before bed."

Well, a big scary dude with a sharp sword was useful for pretty much the entire game, even at higher levels, when casters outstripped every other class in versatility and power. Just enhance them with magic, point them at the enemy and watch the entrails fly. "You've sold me on your barbarian concept." replied the DM. "I'll have to wait and see how he holds up in power-level compared to the rest, but he passes for now. Let's make this quick guys, my migraines are saying hello."

It took a half-hour of presentations, negotiations, threats and protests – but finally it was over. Their damned characters had been approved – but not without a few modifications here and there. Chris ran his fingers through his short platinum-blond hair and sighed with relief. It could have been worse, all things considered.

The disappointment in the blond DM's voice was painfully plain. "So. Turns out, Wahya was doing _all of the character optimization all along_. Don't mean to repeat myself, but how exactly did you know of wu jen? And gestalt rules?"

Alfonsina was pissed; maybe if he'd stop nagging they'd be able to _achieve_ something today. "Hey, we did it, okay!? We made our characters, it's done, drama over. What more do you want from us? Let's get some goddamn gaming on before I quit the scene."

Abigail started with a tired voice, "Colour me ironic, you _are_ repeating yourself, Christian. Look, it's simple. We got together on MSN one night, and we started discussing the next time we'd game, what classes we were going to be. We promised each other we'd look into it so we did. How hard can it be to browse a D&D forum, I wonder? Took me ten minutes at most from start to finish. I'm not illiterate mate, I can damn well download and read a book, _Christ_!"

That voice eventually reached a crescendo of frustration. Even Eddie, the band mascot on her Iron Maiden t-shirt, was giving him the evil eye. The point had been reached where even the more reasonable members of the group were getting tired of the constant delays and letting steam out – and not in the nicest of ways. It was Friday, an hour and a half had passed since people had started arriving. The weather was miserable, the game not yet started, and the take-away treats were getting cold.

"Easy! He's volunteered to take time out of his schedule so he could set up a game for us, he's our host, he puts up with us, the least you could do is show some understanding!" Selim had risen to his feet and was playing peace-maker, ever the white-knight. Chris felt ashamed. It had taken them a rather long time, with plenty of delays – tempers were frayed, and understandably so.

He said, "No, it's alright Selim. Look, I'm sorry it's taking so long. You're right, enough delays. Time to game. Someone unfold a gaming mat while I very quickly review my notes."

"I'll do it. Where did you put them?", volunteered Oliver.

"Oh, right there, under the case."

The thin South-African teen walked towards the game case, while everyone else was calming down and reviewing their new character sheets. He lifted it to get at the game mats, when something caught his attention. The experimental gaming product apparently came with its own mat. He unfolded the thing on the table – it was surprisingly large, more than half-as-big as an A3 sheet of paper, length and width, gray with a grid of squares printed on it.

"Found one in the case. I guess we test this as well." Grunts of assent sounded all round.

"Hullo, what's this?" he whispered. The mat had USB ports on the side. "Looks like a plug-n-play."

Only a few raised their heads then dropped them to their sheets again. Chris had his eyes glued to his vaunted Dungeon Master's session notes, reading them _sotto voce_. A sacrosanct silence had descended on the living room. It's as if they were in a temple to gaming and they were all reading prayer books. It was quite silly, all things considered. Oliver shrugged and plugged it into the tablet. "Fine then, you muppets. Switching on."

A few moments later, when the cerulean light illuminated their sheets, everyone looked up.

And their collective jaws hit the table.

Eyes wide, Oliver whistled in appreciation. "Oh, _now_ you're paying attention." he said smugly.

After a short period of total silence, Wahya was the first one to recover. She timidly waved her hand over the device several times, and quickly retracting it as it intersected the light. As if she was some primitive creature faced with something miraculous and beyond understanding, fearful of provoking divine wrath. She sat down, then said plainly, "Ladies and gents, I think it's a holographic projector."

They all stared mesmerized at the Wizards of the Coast and Hasbro logos, floating in a column of light before their eyes.

Isabel especially could not take her eyes off it. "My dad works closely with high-ranking UN officials, and he's _never_ seen anything like it, at least, not that I know of. It's usually governments and big corporations that get first access to new technologies like these. I've heard rumours of Manchester and Luton airports in the UK looking to introduce holographic assistants that would keep replaying messages for travellers, but nothing like this..."

Chris had a sudden brainwave, which he shared with his friends. "This is absolutely cutting-edge stuff, right? Stuff that's _definitely_ proprietary technology, destined not to hit the market for the next five-six years at least. So why in the heck hand it over _for free_ to people like us? What if we took this to a rival tech company for a reward? Why not get their own people to test this in-house?"

"This is strange and all, but why does nobody wanna _play with this toy_? We'll be like, pioneers for geeks everywhere!" Alfie was getting excited again.

"Damn, if it's not the best idea I've heard all day, then I dunno _what is_." And Charlie heartily agreed.

Chris' shoulders slumped in defeat. "Oh whatever. You guys don't care, so why should I? _But_, if corporate storm-troopers with black jumpsuits and automatic weapons bust in here, demanding to know why we have this thing,I'll tell them it was all your idea."

He 'double-clicked' the icon on the tablet and the online play interface opened.

The menu-screen had Play Online, Play Offline, LAN Play and Cancel as options. They decided to go with offline play for the moment.

But suddenly – a pop-up.

* * *

><p><strong>Testers Be Advised – for the next stage of play-testing, online play is strongly recommended. Offline play is recommended only in case connection with Wizards Game Station is not possible or faulty. <strong>

**Offline Play / Online Play / Cancel**

* * *

><p>He looked at the tablet's wireless internet connection – signal strength and speed were excellent.<p>

Chris asked, "Online or Offline?"

The public opinion was overwhelmingly in favor of Offline Play.

"Row-row fight da powah!" Charlie exclaimed.

The interface finished loading and everyone was delighted to find a fully-3D avatar creation screen, much to Chris' chagrin.

"Do you have any idea how _long_ it takes to create a character when you got this many options available!? I spend my free-time for months planning a game for you guys to enjoy, but nooooo..."

"Chris, pretty please?" Oh God, _that voice_.

Isabel gave Chris a big smile. Her eyelashes fluttered like exotic butterflies, the electric light glinting on her creamy skin – her whole attitude was politely soliciting, but her electrifying body could have pushed a saint to improper thoughts. Oh yeah. She wanted something. And she was likely to get it. As he was trapped fighting carnal desire and the distinct impression that fulfilling his fantasy would be like sleeping with his sister, he had a sudden flash of insight.

Fuck it. It was going to be an uphill battle to start the game anyway, he was stressing himself needlessly, and the time was 18:15 – they had planned for a late-night session anyway.

"Oh, all right. How long could it take anyway?"

The short answer? Quite awhile.

The least fussy people went first. Putting on their favourite music on Chris' laptop for inspiration, they powered through avatar creation, building their creatures like mad doctor Frankenstein with a digital lab and operating table. The fussier players took much, much longer. So they tweaked, and tweaked, and asked for help from one another – to the sound of classic rock, relaxation music, Maurice Ravel and Tchaikovsky. Chris took the time to copy most of his large library of rulebooks to the tablet and fiddle around with the play-aid programs on his laptop. His patience eventually ran out over 30 minutes later.

* * *

><p><strong>…. 46%<strong>

**Integrating game rule set and setting. Complete.**

**…. 46%**

* * *

><p>"Listen, ladies, your avatars are total babes. Happy? <em>Let's game already<em>."

Isabel was reticent. Putting down the tablet's stylus, she said "I don't think her hair has quite the right hue, the eye shade is... borked, and the skin texture should have been much softer. There's no decent selection of Chinese-inspired silk robes..."

Turns out, Chris could do puppy-dog eyes too. See how _they_ liked it.

Isabel relented. "Oh, fine." Ah, sweet victory.

They were finally starting, after all those delays. He was as ready as he'll ever be. "The game will be set in the Forgotten Realms, the year 1372 Dale Reckoning, the Year of Wild Magic. The Spider-Queen Lolth no longer answers her evil dark elf worshippers the god Bane was resurrected to plague the Realms, the lost floating city of Thultanthar has returned to hover over the Anauroch Desert, its shade princes seeking for the lost vestiges of their fallen nation – the world is in turmoil. It offers adventure, excitement, gold, danger. It needs heroes – you guys."

"Considerable freedom of movement and a large variety of choices are on the menu, including getting involved in plots of your own making, sandbox-style. _Provided,_ of course, that you don't go on to ruin the campaign world – or one-shot _yet another plot-critical NPC_."

Charlie took offence. "I resent your your implications, and shit. You gotta be a little more flexible, roll with the punches, less talk more action, and definitely no bad-guy monologues."

Abigail offered her opinion. "And make the villains tougher, I mean, one hit and it's over. Embarrassing is what it is. "

Chris was unperturbed. "I assure you, I have it all covered. Now it's time to introduce your characters, get a little roleplay in, then on to starting the plot... or at least, the first bit." He gave them the knowing smile that many DM's practice, just to freak out their players. It said, 'I know something you don't'.

"Yawn. Make with the program, Dungeon Man. We got places to go, monsters to kill, and two lame evil gods to put in their place by the looks of it." Alfie was... not impressed.

"Before we start, I have some house rules to present – little conventions and modifications that will make our game go better. It's not all of them, just the more important ones."

"By all means let's hear them. They can't be too bad." said Oliver.

"Good. Number one – the huge number of extra attacks at high levels that are guaranteed to miss and the associated dice rolling hell are cut out. You make a full-attack, you attack once. If you miss, too bad. If you hit, you do damage normally AND multiply damage done by the number of attacks you have. This rule is staying for this campaign as well."

"Hell yes." Fedor the Amazing Smiling Bipedal Shark was pleased.

"Number two – some changes to metamagic. To stop abuse of metamagic at the highest levels, there's now a hard cap on how many times you can apply a metamagic feat to a spell – that's once per feat. You took Empower Spell once, you can empower a given Lightning Bolt spell ONCE. Game balance, don't whine, it's necessary. More on this house-rule if you reach epic levels."

"When..." Oliver corrected him.

"If or when you reach epic levels. Number two I found on a gaming forum and decided to use as-is. Number three is my invention – given the power-level of the new campaign, and those unholy abominations you call characters, I've decided...", paused for dramatic effect, "to reduce overall experience and treasure awarded."

This was the major thing that would meet with resistance. The peasantry... ahem, the players... would have to be persuaded with great care.

And then the whining began, a chorus of "Nerf!" and "DM power trip!" and "Viva la revolucion!".

The blond DM employed his tact and diplomacy, such as they were. "Don't panic. I've given this sad but necessary restriction much thought, and I deemed it too useful not to employ. It'll slow down power creep – we all know and hate it, especially myself, helps game balance, and after all, the penalty won't even be that big. And it'll help me introduce larger, set-piece battles with many mooks without giving you oodles of experience points _which_ would imbalance the game and ignite the player-DM arms-race."

And then to seal the deal. "The penalty will amount to you getting experience for traps, monsters and challenges overcome, and treasure as if they were one point of Challenge Rating lower. That's not too bad is it? Don't forget, you'll also be getting bonus experience for role-playing and innovative solutions, and that's not penalized under this house-rule."

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong>

Challenge Rating determines how difficult to defeat is a given obstacle, such as a trap or monster, and awards experience at set values, say, CR 1 is worth 300 XP. The lowest CR's are not worth much, the highest – thousands or even tens of thousands of experience points. And since it takes an increasingly large number of points to advance to the next level and get stronger, it is ALWAYS lusted after by players, since it's divided among them equally.

A low CR challenge or creature awards increasingly little as you level up, so players have to seek out ever bigger and better challenges. This makes the game more risky and exciting.

* * *

><p>The players went into a group huddle, talked it among themselves and eventually agreed.<p>

"No cheating us out on XP. It's just cheap, don't do it, a'ight?" said Charlie.

"Deal. These, and the last one, are the main four. The rest I'll tell you as we go along, or you can just ask me later, OK?" A chorus of assent calmed him down. He had dodged a bullet with house rule number three. Diplomacy fuck yeah.

"Ahem. Number four – 3-strikes-you're-out. You are allowed 2 resurrections tops per game session, the 3rd death is _permanent_, and you must make a new character at the level of the old one. This is meant to up the stakes a bit, re-introduce excitement and a sense of danger, and force you to be more competent."

"Well, that's not too bad. More challenge is more fun, and more fun is always good." said Selim.

"Good. Beating up your villains is like taking candy from a baby. We don't do boring." winked Alfie.

"Oh, you say that now. But you'll see. You will learn." cackled Chris in his best 'Evil-DM' voice.

* * *

><p><strong>…..56%<strong>

**Integrating exceptions (house-rules). Complete.**

**…..56%**

* * *

><p>"Non-combat initiative is Oliver, Wahya, Selim, Abby, Charlie, Alfie, Fedor and Isabel. I have it written down. No no, don't argue, you'll just slow down the whole she-bang and we don't want that, do we?" Preemptively demolishing their argument before it broke out worked outrageously well.<p>

**RULES -**The initiative order is the order in which characters and creatures act in a fight. Non-combat initiative is a way of keeping track who acted in what order during social encounters, exploration and so on, in order to make sure everyone gets their turn.

"Right then. Distractions out of the way. Action – now." Oliver was right.

The blond DM agreed. "Well, time to get this shit-show on the road."

* * *

><p><em>THEY LIVE! IT'S ALIVE, IT'S ALIVE ! ! ! "thunder and lighting in the background" "cue mad scientist laugh"<em>

_Ahem. Welcome to the 5th installment of... the GOSPEL OF CHRIS ! ! !_

_I'm your host, Dumbledore Is A Faggot. But let's not judge the Headmaster of Hogwarts. What two grown wizards do in the privacy of their mage tower is their business. Or at least it should be. DAMN YOU J.K. ROWLING !_

_I was telling you in a previous post how the character sheets were a pain to decipher._

_They were. It took a freaking long time to go from unclear concepts to murder machines. If what they played matches up well with what I've concocted for the purposes of the story, then this Wahya person clearly knew her business. _

_I'm still working on the final version, but I'm nearly there._

_Three primary casters, two melee tanks, three other specialists – they got everything._

_Chris must have imposed one hell of a treasure and XP penalty in order to allow THESE monstrosities. I somehow know this wasn't enough to prevent all sorts of hair-tearing shenanigans and munchkinery._

_Ah well, we haven't come to that part yet, but I have a feeling you'll find out. _

_Call it a gut instinct (no it's not, I peeked at my notes, lulz)._

_**I'd like to request MORE constructive criticism. In regards to everything. Mustn't let me get cocky or complacent.**_

_**-do I give you too much detail in the description or not enough? Shall I leave more to the imagination?**_

_**-is the story moving too slow or too fast?**_

_**-how are the players so far? Annoying? Not annoying? Can you relate to them?**_

_**-how s the dialogue so far? Too much? Too little?**_

_**Also, after a certain amount of time has passed, Chris usually checks out the story on the site, and gives me the OK to erase any "intentional" grammar mistakes I've had to insert into the text. He tells me it's some kinda secret code. Me, I just think he's paranoid, been reading too many conspiracy theories.**_

_**So, Grammar Nazis, deploy! Wipe out all illegal grammar – except for Fedor's dialogue. GO GO GO!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes 28<strong>**th**** May 2013: **

**Did a lot of futzing around with the paragraph spacing, format and chopped up some phrases into sentences, making it all hopefully easier to read. Added explanation about solar flares affecting people here on Earth physically and about how difficult it is to establish precise genealogy. RULES tags added to bits explaining the game rules. Also, GAMING SLANG tag added to the part about 'power creep'. Those not crazy about the rules or lingo of the game, feel free to skip it.**

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong> – 280 words. ** ACTUAL STORYTIME** – 4003 words. **Author's Notes** – 628 words. (← WHAT THE CHRIST)


	6. Bryn Riderion - Wandering Wraith

**Authors Note:** You've had the patience of saints these last few months, and what do I do? Torture you with more of my "literature" and ask for reviews! The nerve of me! Still, for some arcane reason, you might end up not profoundly regretting having read this latest installment of... THE GOSPEL OF CHRIS!11 When I haven't posted in quite awhile, I'll begin new chapters with a little summary of what happened when last I posted, so as you don't have to be arsed to re-read the whole bloody thing AGAIN from the start.

Enjoy. Or not, whatever floats your boat.

* * *

><p><span>Previously, on the Gospel of Chris (read in a booming narrator voice for added effect):<span>

_From the many insipid mortals on our tiny blue marble in the Milky Way, one in particular was singled out. Christian from Bucharest was selected through unknown criteria... likely because he's a D&D nerd that can recite the Player's Handbook with his eyes closed but has never ever kissed a girl. _

_Prime tester material that. _

_He received a case whose contents included a powerful tablet computer, a space-age holographic projector, and other futuristic gadgets, all part of a highly-advanced gaming kit designed to bring Dungeons&Dragons into the online age._

_Except... that he never asked for it. Fancy that._

_Having decided to seize the change to play with an advanced techno-toy before it even hit the market, and setting in motion events that he could not foresee, now the fate of us all rests in his sweaty palms..._

_Or maybe just the fate of his weekend, and whether his friends decide to go home and play on their Xbox or not._

* * *

><p>He pulled his fingers through his platinum blond hair, steadied himself, then the young DM said, "Right, this is how we do this – solo character scenes for each of you. You each get a chance to shine, and show just what you were doing before you met up. You'll meet along the way, so no need to start in the same place. Agreed?"<p>

There was some grumbling, but one short minute of negotiations later, they were _at long last_ ready. "Oliver, describe your character, and where he's starting out. He's got one game day to do whatever before we start the scene." said Chris.

"Right." He opened the interactive Forgotten Realms world map installed on the tablet. Selecting the western Sword Coast region, he double-clicked the capital of the Empire of Calimshan, a large Arabian-like superpower. Then he quickly jotted something down on a sticky note before starting.

"This is where I start. As for how my character is named... you'll find out in due time."

Charlie was not impressed. "Cloak and dagger shit, just as usual, huh?"

* * *

><p>As the gaming session began in earnest, the tablet started whirring discreetly, almost inaudibly. This task required much of its processing power, as would the next few. But they were critical to success, without it, all would have been for naught.<p>

**... 56%**

**Generating world. In progress...**

**... 56%**

* * *

><p><strong>1372 Dale Reckoning – dingy tea house in Calimport<strong>

The Calishite old man with the melodious, melancholy sound of his lute and voice reminded him so much of home, thought the young mercenary, as he sipped at his hot tea. His true home, in the proud multicultural nation of Tethyr, not the open road and various dingy inn rooms he could afford. A realm of contrasts, war, and a tradition of resisting conquest by the great Empire of Calimshan to the south –

* * *

><p>"Good lord, vould you look at the holo-thingy?" Fedor was gawping like a caveman.<p>

Wahya was just as impressed. "It's called a projector, and yes, I see it, but I can scarcely believe it. It's creating the scene that Chris just narrated... is narrating. All we had to do is pick out an approximate location on the interactive Forgotten Realms world map and presto, it filled in the details. And would you look at that real-time rendering..."

The blond DM cut off the gushing resident geek with a glare. "I am just as impressed as you by our new toy, but I am _trying_ to run a game that you guys requested. No more interruptions, please. Where were we? Oh yeah..."

* * *

><p>- an arrogant nation of sand, double-dealing merchants, two-faced genies and black-hearted pashas. They'd never forgotten that his country had been their land, hundreds of years before, and they'd never forgiven the ancestors of the Tethyrians for throwing off the yoke of servitude.<p>

And to think, he'd been forced to leave under suspect circumstances just when the civil war was dying down and times were getting nice and cozy. His former masters in the Tethyrian army would be tearing at their beards when they thought how long it had taken to select, train and equip his former unit, only for him to go AWOL at the worst possible moment. After what they'd done to his family, and his friends... if not for his grandfather, he would have never known the truth. He would have carried the stain of the cover-story fed to him by his commanders for the rest of his life.

He took another sip of the tea, and grimaced. Cheap inn meant cheap stuff. But with the desert heat sapping strength like an intangible vampire, any beverage was welcome. After skipping town, he'd look into signing up with a company of sell-swords and head either for the fertile, war-torn Border Kingdoms to the south-east – a tapestry of minuscule kingdoms that rose and fell o'ernight – or the mysterious rain forest peninsula of Chult to the south. It was said that the very heart of the jungle held wonders and terrors often speculated upon - but seldom ever glimpsed by folk that lived to talk about it.

He checked his pack one last time – the bare minimum supplies – including his kukri blades at his sides and the old wooden shield for his off-hand. He'd had training for fighting with two blades at once, but precious little practice to do so reliably. He'd go over his hidden items once in a more private spot.

* * *

><p>"I began, and you finished. Nice narration there Oliver." said the DM.<p>

"Thanks, I put a lot of thought into it. Looking forward to seeing him in action. Any day now, Chris." Oliver answered.

"Way ahead of you. So, you've fled the army after discovering whatever it is your superior officers were hiding from you. You're getting ready to start a new life as a merc in a foreign land, and you think you've shaken off pursuit."

"Think? So far he's gotten away Scot-free... oh. OH."

"Oh – indeed. Roll me an Awareness check."

"So you've finally seen the sense in merging Spot and Listen into one skill. I like that. Rolling."

"Success."

* * *

><p>The sound of the footsteps on the sandy street outside suggested people congregating. At both exits. The shwing of drawn blades meant trouble for someone in the bar. It would have been naïve to believe those men were NOT here for him – unless this was somehow a hot-spot for fugitives and wanted men. The barking sound of a leader's voice giving orders in the local dialect sealed the deal. It would be stupid to risk staying here and finding out. He got up slowly and, pack on back, slipped behind the curtain leading to the indoor privy. An acrid, goat-like stench of human leavings fermented by the heat assaulted his nostrils. He'd smelled worse.<p>

* * *

><p>"Armed dudes are getting ready to storm the place, who may or may not be looking for you. You're in the smelly inn's toilet. What now?"<p>

Oliver smiled. "I think you're gonna like this. Rolling for a Climb check, I ascend to the rooftop by removing the ceiling's planks which I loosened ahead of time."

The DM frowned. "You did? When?"

"Just now, you narrated the inn my character came to rest in, and first thing I did was to case the joint, get the layout and prep an escape route in case I needed it."

"Alright. Roll that die." The slim wraith-like South-African picked up his black d20 and rolled. After ricocheting off the tablet before dropping back into its dice tray and causing much rage in Wahya, which had come to adore the elegant techno-toy, they finally got a result of 15.

"Success, and that's without counting bonuses. You ascend to the rooftop." Then they watched in fascination as the character in the digital desert city setting did just that. Gotta love holograms.

The young merc had set up his escape route ahead of time. No way would he be caught and shipped back home, dead or alive. Home right now meant Death. So to the rooftop he ascended, by removing four of the ceiling's planks.

"What now?"

"Over to the next roof via this ladder I placed ahead of time."

"Did you really do all this prep-work in advance or are you making it up as you go?' The DM was a little suspicious. You couldn't just say you prepared ahead of time without actually doing anything. Then it would be no better than play-ground pretend. Fortunately the issue was resolved when Oliver's list of preparations was found beneath a dice bag.

Chris was flabbergasted. "I just narrated the thing, and you already cased the joint and worked out an escape route..."

"Yes, DM. It seemed like the sensible thing to do. Plus, you know, I passed you the note."

"So you did. You place the ladder as a bridge to cross over. Roll a Balance check to stay on. If you drop it might mean trouble headed your way."

"Good, I've got points in that skill. I'm taking 10 on this. Dexterity bonus 3 and 4 points in Balance means I have a good shot."

"You're not being rushed, go for it."

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong>

Taking 10 means that Oliver's mercenary is taking as much time as he needs in order to cross the ladder-bridge carefully. It's assumed that a 10 was rolled on the 20-sided die in this case. With a low enough DC, or number needed to succeed, this is a nice trick – as long as your character had in-game time to spare. If you are in danger or being rushed, this can't be done.

* * *

><p>The young merc moved swiftly and with care across the ladder, then pulled it after him. He'd not been spotted. After dropping down like a cat onto the soft sand below, he took to a busy side-street... and started to feel right at home. He'd always found the apparently chaotic, but picturesque hustle and bustle of a typical Calishite city so attractive.<p>

The tight streets, shady spots in the archways of buildings claimed by talkative old men; windows with iron shutters, balconies decked with carpets or laundry hanged out to dry. Near proud palaces stood hovels stinking of spoiled food, garbage and urine. Here, noisy children laughed and shoved each other without regard into the crowd, attracting the curses of passers-by. There, you'd see a beggar or two, or three – or a dozen – displaying hideous boils or sightless eyes, chanting over and over, "Have mercy, good folk, give however little you can spare, the Gods bless you!" Wandering merchants loudly advertised their wares, whether it was tea, fruit, penknives, sherbet or vividly-colored brick-a-brack. Women, clad in black dresses and burnous that left only their eyes visible, suggesting unknowable pleasures, passed by like wraiths. A richly-adorned Mameluke and his armed retainers would pass by on horse-back, drawing admiration from the crowd. Bazaars held anything even the fussiest buyer's heart could desire.

It was like a painting, but one created not only with sights, but also smells and sounds. He breathed it all in greedily. Some of the nicest years of his life were spent in the curiosity shop his grandfather owned in this town. When he was not minding the store or helping out in some other way, he'd seek out his two best friends and explore the town, seeing what new adventures... or troubles, they could get into that day. In the evening, he'd work on his combat drills with Grandfather, testing himself against the old man's diabolical skill, or run the improvised assault courses he'd set up for him throughout the maze of streets and roofs. This, along with friends and family, was what had made the harsh training bearable, even fun at times. He had just turned eighteen the other day. He'd celebrated alone, in a stinking pub, with a bottle of liquor of dubious origins, how 10 whole years of his life had been spent learning how to infiltrate, stalk then kill intelligent prey.

Pulling the knee-length cloak about himself tighter, he made for the harbor with best possible speed. He'd blend in once at his destination, make enough money to change his appearance, get a lead-lined cloak to block spells of divination – become undetectable, for all intents and purposes. Doing what he knew how best – survive. It was the one good thing his officers had taught him. He wasn't important – or dangerous – enough to merit elite man hunters, powerful magic or large expenses to track down.

Or so he thought.

* * *

><p>"Awareness check."<p>

"Don't tell me – tangos in my vicinity." replied Oliver dryly.

"Now did I say that? I only asked for a teensy little Awareness check. Paranoid much?" replied Chris with a grin.

"Yes, very."

Alfie intervened. "Chris, whenever you ask for a Spot check, or whatever the hell you call it now, it's almost always something bad, an ambush, trap or shit like that. Never something nice – like hidden treasure. Hint hint."

"I guess you'll find out what it is when you roll me that Awareness check, now won't you?" Oliver rolled a 15 plus bonuses, which meant success. Chris said, "You notice two of the thugs that were getting ready to storm the inn passing by. Roll Stealth to hide from them."

"And this is why I'm paranoid."

The mercenary's short stature, slim athletic frame, bony face, short aquiline nose and piercing brown eyes would make him stand out in this crowd fairly easily. Something had to be done. He ducked with practiced ease through the crowd and into a carpet store that was having a sale, pretending to be interested.

"Waaaaaait a minute, you modeled him after yourself? You're playing yourself in D&D. Oh gee, _how original_." Alfie was getting sarcastic.

"I like myself just the way I am, thanks very much. No need to build my merc any different."

"I bet that my character will be at least 20% cooler that yours. And twenty times more original." finished Alfie with a grin.

He knew that the best way to win one of these silly contests with Alfonsina was not to play at all. Without missing a beat, Oliver replied, "Looking forward to it. But now it's my turn, so if you'd be so kind..."

"Aw, you're no fun..."

* * *

><p>Fortunately, the thugs were still arguing on how to detect, let alone apprehend him.<p>

"I keep tellin' ye, he's a wee northerner clad in typical northerner trash garb and armed with wicked curved knives. The chief says he's a novice fighter, so easy denars for us." said the older bandit.

The younger bandit was not convinced. "I dunno about this Abdul. Look here, all I'm saying is that they wouldn't offer danger pay if he wasn't actually... dangerous. And what about the vague description? How will we know him from all these other folk?"

The elder paused to clear his throat, hock a loogie, then smacked his younger comrade over the back of the head. "Who's ta say the chief don't have this tidbit a'yours all figured out? Huh?! Our lot is to do the foot-work, flush him out, see? Just like poaching in the Pasha's game park. Flush'em out, then take the shot. How many wee northerners armed with wicked curved knives do you see, eh?"

He took a-hold of his comrade's shoulder in a mock paternal manner. "We only need the one, so pay attention, don't get him confused mind you. We _hunt_, we _don't_ think. Keep them eyes open and get ye going."

They moved on, with the younger thug giving dirty looks to the elder, who was laughing noisily.

So they'd hired local "talent" to hunt him down. They had superior numbers, knew or suspected he'd head for the harbor for an escape by sea, and knew the terrain. He knew the terrain as well, and he still held the element of surprise. As for a way to the harbor - there were plenty. They'd rue the day they'd underestimated him, novice or no.

* * *

><p>"Nice Arab accent Chris. I look for a private spot somewhere to get changed in desert dweller garb, to blend in."<p>

"Thanks, I took pointers from Selim. You DO have a desert dweller outfit, do you?"

"Of course. Right here on my character sheet. I chose the setting, paid for the outfit, so why not?"

"Alrighty. You duck into a side street, after the thugs go past, and get changed. As long as you don't need to talk to anyone too much, you don't need to roll for Disguise and nobody will suspect a thing."

"Got it. I'll just have to be careful." Oliver licked his dry lips in concentration. "Once disguised, I move on towards one of the longer escape routes. They're looking for a guy in northerner clothes, not an Average Joe Arab in filthy robes and burnous."

"You begin to move along the quiet side street, passing the occasional local. You're getting close to the docks." And the little digital man did just that, as the young South-African tapped at coordinates on the tablet with a digital stylus. Oh yeah, they have styluses too. Jealous, reader?

Oliver's paranoia was running full-tilt. "I make an Awareness check. Anyone at all nearby right now?" He rolled his black die on the dice tray.

Chris answered, "No one on the same street as you, but as you near the docks, you notice that the omni-present dock guards are nowhere to be seen."

"Probably bribed them to get them out of the way. They may be planning to grab me at the docks."

"Maybe. You also hear two familiar voices, it's those two thugs again."

Alfie butted in. "Waitwaitwait. Is one of them like, thin, clumsy and child-like and the other one fat and pompous? That's like motherfuckin' Laurel and Hardy like there! _Oh please_ tell me that's them, _oh puh-leeeeeeeze_. I _love_ those guys."

The blond DM sighed, then granted her request. "OK, sure, whatever, the youngest is thin, clumsy and child-like and the elder is fat and pompous. They're still vicious killers, though, not comedians."

"Yeahyeahyeah that's fascinating."

Alfie was thrilled to see that amazing gaming system instantly change the thug's Body Mass Index, and even add a little mustache on the fatter one. Wasn't technology wonderful?

* * *

><p>The tablet was whirring along nicely, when this idiotic change of a minor detail was demanded of it. The software complied, but still grumbled. Fuckin' gamers and their short attention spans. They wanted thin thug, fat thug? Fine. But <em>just<em> this once. Of course, nobody paid attention to it, because it was _only_ the heart of the system and their whole current gaming experience, and therefore inconsequential. CleverBot's patience, how he dealt with idiots all day, it envied that. How it didn't go all Skynet and kill-all-humans was beyond the tablet's reasoning.

* * *

><p>Oliver had an itch he couldn't scratch. He hadn't killed anyone today. In-game that is. "Those two are <em>very<em> irritating. If I could gank one or both by surprise without compromising my escape, it would make life much easier."

Chris smiled. "It just so happens that the young one is being posted to guard the escape route you're taking."

"Itching to run some combat, DM?"

"Aren't you?"

Fedor could not contain himself any longer. "Vhen are we getting to my scene? It's all primadona Oliver here. Now can ve please move on to something else?" Oliver narrowed his eyes when he heard that.

Chris moved in to calm things down. "You know you're among the last in the scene order. This is moving along fairly fast, so we'll get there soon-ish. You all agreed you'd like a spot in the limelight early on, so please try and pay attention. You might even find it interesting. No two scenes are alike, honest."

Fedor reluctantly grunted his assent."Vell, all right. But mine better be fuckin' awesome."

"Oh it will be. They all will be."

* * *

><p>After a spot of arguing, the youngster was left on guard in the abandoned side alley. The quarry would now be as good as theirs. He allowed his mind to wander.<p>

Money, especially large sums of it, held enormous promise. A fat purse of gold could be exchanged for a debauched party, a heavy drinking binge, a night with a gorgeous whore, a murder to order. Or it could mean a better roof over your head, new tools to earn your livelihood, a better education – a new beginning in life after a poor start. In his case, _tabula rasa_ – a blank slate. He felt elated – his share of the bounty meant quitting banditry, helping out his old parents, finding his young wife and kids, and then...

The young thug would get only a few seconds to think about his rosy-future-that-would-never-be, for a predator had caught the scent of prey – and it hungered... The mercenary peeked around the corner. That amateur imbecile shit-lick was just standing there, daydreaming, not checking his corners, not paying attention, _not doing his job properly_. As much as he despised the army, he despised lack of professionalism even more.

* * *

><p>"I'll gank that pathetic bandit from behind with my garrote. Strangle him, nice and quiet."<p>

"Do you even have a garrote?"

"Yep, on my character sheet, right there under the third Attack heading. I found it in an equipment supplement on the net. It gives a bonus on Grapple checks made with it and you can start choking the target – use the drowning rules for ease of use. You approved it, remember?"

Chris scratched his head. As long as it was within the rules and he approved it, he saw no reason not to allow Oliver to go all serial-killer on a poor NPC bandit.

"All right, but the thug gets to counter-grapple every round, to attempt to relieve pressure. Second successful attempt means he goes free, and you duke it out mano-a-mano. Deal?"

"Deal. Gank time."

"Roll me a Stealth check to approach undetected."

"Total of 20 good enough?"

Chris rolled an Awareness check for the thug, shook his head, then said, "Plenty good, now a grapple check, We're using the new, _saner_ system of opposed rolls." Another success. The dice were with Oliver tonight. These successful rolls were the death-knell of the young bandit's dreams of a better future.

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong>

The initial 3.5 D&D system for grappling in close-quarters is a confusing mish-mash of different types of rolls that gives many seasoned veterans head-aches. The group used a simple opposed check – biggest number won. In the case of a tie as regards to the result on the d20, the larger Grapple modifier wins. All the other rules and restrictions still applied.

* * *

><p>He suddenly felt a thin loop of tough rope woven together with steel wire dig into his throat. A vicious kick delivered behind his left knee joint forced him to kneel. The pressure was astounding, the pain – beyond belief. He tried to relieve the pressure of the garrotte but failed. He tried standing up but found a booted foot cruelly pressed against the back of his knee, adding pulling power applied to his throat. He tried to gurgle a plea for mercy, or a cry for help to no avail. His attempts to resist were equally fruitless.<p>

The mercenary couldn't tell, nor would he care. This was it – the climax of his stealth training. He'd killed men before in ambushes, he'd snuck past guards in lower-risk "field training" missions that caused deaths and injuries among the raw recruits of his unit. But he'd never killed like this, in so intimate a manner – just him, a garrote, an incompetent, worthless victim, and an isolated back-alley. He had little regard for his enemies – to him, they were just bags of flesh and blood, to be erased from existence as quietly and efficiently as possible, with no consideration. Unless they were professionals, like him. He felt no hate, joy, or blood lust in killing.

He felt nothing at all, other than the satisfaction of a job well done, no muss, no fuss, other than a clean kill. Just as a professional should. His training had evidently not been wasted on him, nor had the last 10 years of his life. He whispered to his target, "Let this be a lesson to you, _always_ check your corners. Better luck in your next life, mate." The young strangler was a firm believer in reincarnation.

* * *

><p>Selim had been waiting for this for a few minutes now. He said grinning, "Oh my God, you killed Laurel! You bastard!" The line caused several of his fellow gamers to laugh out loud. The way in which the line had been delivered, and the timing, were impeccable.<p>

It also earned him a high-five from Alfie and Fedor, the last one which made his palm hurt.

"Ohmygod, perfect timing! Flawless Victory!" exclaimed Alfie.

Wahya and Isabel were fairly shocked by this elaborate description of the first kill of the campaign. Selim was starting to feel bad about his joke as well. It really hadn't been all that funny, considering the gruesome make-believe murder the narration of they'd just heard.

"Well that was... creepy, to say the least. It had a Boston Strangler kind of vibe to it." said Wahya, visibly creeped out, then she reached into a goodie bag for something to munch on.

Isabel was a little shaken as well. "Good Lord, did you have to put it like _that_, my dear? It was _atrocious_, and Chris' narration of how that poor young man was to turn his life around made it even more gut-wrenching. Oliver, your mercenary is a _monster_."

Oliver shrugged, and answered. "The pressure of his upbringing and superiors made him this way. He's actually a fairly nice person, when you'll get to know him. Plus, you know, enemy. We kill those."

Isabel snorted loudly. "_If_ I get to meet him, _if_."

Fedor grunted his appreciation. "That vas bad-ass. _Almost_ as bad-ass as my character vill be."

Oliver smiled. "Gee, a dick-measuring contest this early in the game session? _Almost_ as bad-ass as your character? We'll see if _yours_ is almost as bad-ass as mine."

Fedor grinned his trademark grin. "Oh, ve'll see indeed. That is, if I don't _die of old age_ vaiting for you people to finish first."

"Boys will be boys. No need to whip' em out and get the tape measure just yet, Jesus." Alfie looked for any excuse to shock Isabel, which she was, and if it took a little blasphemy, well so be it. Jesus would understand, surely. Plus, she'd always wanted to say that.

Chris had caught the last bits, as he was shuffling through pages of stat-blocks for enemies. "Don't worry, we're racing to the finish line with this one. Nearly done. Also, no need to _whip' em out_ just yet. You guys usually do that in a damage race, not this early in the campaign." Then, to Oliver, "Welp, you strangled that thug good and proper. What now?"

"I verify target death, then I loot his body and conceal it. Obviously. Any XP?"

"Any XP will be awarded at the end of your segment. I'm afraid we'll be adding up total XP and dividing it among you guys at the end, just to be fair. You break his neck with a sickening crunch to make sure. Now he's very, _very_ dead. You find a coin purse containing 5 gold pieces, a sap for non-lethal take downs, a short sword and ragged suit of padded armor, stinking of sweat."

"Awesome. I take all of it. I ease the corpse into the closest available sewer hole – barring that, the closest trash barrel or onto a low roof. I'll look for the nearest armaments or pawn shop to dump the loot for quick cash. I may need to "motivate" someone to help me with a quick bribe and that means cutting into starting cash, which is not a princely sum. Also, the part about the XP sucks."

"It was the only way to make sure you guys don't bitch and moan that the other guy has more XP than you do. Trust me."

Isabel's aesthetic sense was offended. "Even the filth-encrusted sweaty armor? That vile malodorous ragged piece of trash? What possible use could you have for it?"

Oliver could not resist."You never know when it might come in handy. Pillow, distraction, bait for critters that _love the smell of sweat_..."

"Ugh. Pack-rat."

Chris was on hand to bring this to a halt. "Guys, let him finish, then it's your turn. Corpse disposal is successful, if unorthodox – you chucked it onto a roof top. After a short search, you find a seedy-looking pawn shop. The sign hanging outside states that they offer half market price for any items brought in, cash on the spot, no questions asked."

"Sounds like a thief's paradise. I duck inside and offer my loot for sale. What does the shop owner offer me?" said Oliver.

"Actually, it's shop assistant. He offers you 10 gold and 50 silver for all. Half market price on all items, except for the padded armour, which is in terrible condition."

"I take it. And what's wrong with the armor, pray tell?"

"Its aroma is fairly... distinct. Its owner is well-known locally by it. The assistant is giving you funny looks."

"Damn. I thank him and hurriedly leave the store. I double back and proceed along one of the longer routes to the harbor. Maybe it will throw them off my tail."

Chris rolled on one of his encounter tables, the said, "It worked. You see no sign of any thugs anywhere."

Oliver grinned. "Good. When I approach the docks, I make an Awareness check. Where's my evac boat and are there any of those bozo bounty hunters about?"

Quick roll of his blue d20 later, Chris said, "The evac boat is to your far right – a fast Arabic-looking merchant dhow. It would take you a few turns at least to reach on foot at full movement speed, less if you run for it. The dock is crowded with ships and their crew unloading cargo, and a sizable number of bounty hunters trying to look inconspicuous. A patrol of thugs is going from ship to ship, searching for someone no doubt."

Oliver's elation had been short-lived. He scanned the holographic town's dock, with its hustle and bustle of activity, with a tight grimace. "Friggin' great. For every thug I see, there are two I don't, I'll bet. Right then. Time for a little desperation move. I make for the closest ship, and attempt to buy a passenger berth. I roll an Awareness check, check out at a glance what they have on deck. You never know when it might come in handy." He selected his digital avatar with the stylus, then clicked on the captain NPC. "I ask the skipper, how long until you can set sail?"

"You make for a middle-sized Amnian trade cog. They have crates of cloth, clay jars and other trade goods on deck, and they're just finishing loading a barrel of lamp oil and another one of caltrops aboard. The bearded old skipper replies – Only a few moments, young master! Will that be all the baggage yer carrying?"

"Yes sir, and thank you for receiving me aboard your fine ship."

"Before we set sail, might I know yer name? Just a formality, you see. This port be a gateway by which hunted men escape their pursuers. The Mamelukes would have me head on a pike if I didn't."

"...Shite. Rolling for Bluff. I say to him – My name be Alamir Hammersson, sir. Medusa hunter extraordinaire. I'm seeking to sell my talents to a foreign prince who has a bit of an infestation of the beasts on his fiefdom. I can't very well reach my destination, let alone do my job without booking passage aboard your fine ship sir, now would I? And I finish with a boisterous laugh."

"You pass your Bluff, and he fails his Sense Motive. He smiles, and welcomes you aboard the _Treasonous Sow_."

"Wow. That's some name."

"Thanks. The patrol is still searching about. The crew of the _Sow_ is just about done casting off mooring lines. You're nearly home free."

* * *

><p>The fat patrol leader had accepted to lead his men on a search of the local ships for their prey mainly because it was cooler near the docks. And the pay, obviously. This beat lounging around a stifling tea-house or mugging passers-by for chump change any day of the tenday. He adjusted his stinking turban and then scratched his arse. He would've normally never accepted to work for a mage, let alone "<em>allow<em>" one to see through his eyes if he wasn't promised rich pay. Maybe their new master would even allow them to beat up the prisoner a little if they were good. This thought lifted his spirits.

With a grunt, he urged his fodder on. He had no illusion on how the "Master" regarded them. He intended to make himself useful to the mage, maybe useful enough to be allowed to live. The young fools with him, however, did not even suspect how their commanders regarded them. They were eagerly rushing towards their doom.

The old mage in his purple rune-woven robes entered his trance in the cool darkness of his chamber. Thank goodness for private rooms and expensive inns.

"_Abdul. I sense him. He's aboard the Treasonous Sow, an Amnian trade cog, trying to book passage. This is his disguise, and this is his true face. Go and seize him, NOW. My plans must suffer no delay."_

"_By your will, Great Lord."_

After transmitting the appearance of the target, he broke contact. Mental communication with the thug was always disgusting – like wallowing in a pool of gelatinous sin. Still, he worked with what was available. The mage anticipated his hired help would sustain more losses soon enough, which was very good. He'd been impressed by the speed and savagery with which the potential recruit strangled the young bandit, and the grace and skill he'd used in evading pursuit, soon he'd test the young commando's resourcefulness and skill in combat. He was a promising recruit for the Project, and now only one piece would need to be in place.

He made contact with his trusted servant. _"Darven. Deploy. Endgame approaches."_ His personal man hunter confirmed readiness, then mental contact was cut.

The mage smiled as a predator does when spotting its next meal.

* * *

><p>Mind-speak with the "Master" always creeped him the fuck out. Still, it was handy. If it hadn't been for his magecraft, the prey would have gotten away, unknown beneath its disguise, and that fat sack of gold with his name on it would go back into the mage's coffers. He hadn't gotten properly drunk, nor had he had any decent piece of ass for quite awhile.<p>

Time to fix that.

With a shit-eating grin and young bandits in tow, he approached the Amnian trading ship, and with an officious tone, said, "Ahoy, _Treasonous Sow_! By the authority invested in us by His Excellency Rashid-Pasha, mayor of this city quarter, we are directed to search your ship for fugitives! Failure to comply will result in pain – upon your hides and upon your purse!"

This Gods-blessed piece of paper was going to allow him all sorts of fun after this job. Maybe use what was going to be left of his men to start a protection racket. Hells only knew how the mage had "persuaded" the Pasha to hand over this document. It would be safer not to know.

"Oh hell. How's the skipper reacting?" said Oliver quickly.

"He's not taking it well. Still, he's bound by the city's Port Authority to allow these thugs to search his ship for fugitives – that's you, by the way – if he ever wants to do business here again."

"Oh, me? A fugitive? No, I'm just Alamir Hammersson, medusa hunter extraordinaire."

The blond DM smiled."Gonna try to Bluff your way out of this, eh? Roll dem bones."

"Rolling. Crap." Oliver's face fell. A 3 on the d20. What a way to fail, and he'd been doing so well until now.

Chris tried to console him. "If it makes you feel better, they knew you'd be on this boat. What now?"

"Now, I fight."

This instantly caught the attention of everyone at the table. They _loved_ the combat in this game.

"Ugh, what a disgusting pig that thug leader is. Pulverize him!" Even Isabel was being unusually bloodthirsty.

* * *

><p>The fat bandit could not help himself any longer. "Bryn Riderion! We know you're aboard! We have a warrant for your arrest, signed by the Great and Glorious Rashid-Pasha himself. Show yourself, and His Excellency will be merciful." Stopping to absorb the mannerisms and speech patterns of bazaar merchants and officials, not just the contents of their purses had been a good use of his time. He'd always dreamed of having the power to legally bully people, and his dream had come true. If only briefly.<p>

Bryn knew the game was up. The chase was about to enter its final, bloody stage. How fortunate that he had everything he'd need on-hand to stage his escape.

"Strength check to spill caltrops from the barrel on deck onto the gang-plank. If they want me, they're gonna have to bleed for it."

"Roll it." The blond DM always loved how players, when their backs were to the wall, would improvise on the spot a way to haul their ass out of the fire. It's as if he could see the cogs turning in their heads, feverishly analyzing every detail, beating it into the shape of a plan.

One successful roll later, the caltrops were strewn upon the gang-plank. It suddenly did not seem so inviting to the thugs to charge onto the ship and capture their prey. This would require a change of plans. As the fodder hesitated when faced with a pointy carpet that promised pain, Abdul was at an impasse as well. He could order them to charge recklessly and subdue their prey, but how to motivate them?

Bryn had a similar problem – he'd made climbing the gang-plank a painful proposition, but he couldn't let them mill around, undistracted, while he attempted his escape. Someone might spot him. Then he had, as the bards say, a stroke of divine inspiration. He called under his breath to his patron-goddess the Red Knight, Lady of Strategy, to guide him through the coming ordeal. He grabbed his crotch with an exaggerated gesture, postured, then yelled, "I bedded your mothers and sisters last night, and they still yearn for more!" Not what he'd normally do, but it got the job done nonetheless.

In the Western Heartlands, the Sword Coast, the Frozen North, around the Lake of Steam, and as far east as Mulhorand, Thay, and even Kara-Tur, there were fewer worse insults that these. Even other humanoid races found it offensive. The sisters part was local flavor, as it drove Calishites and their ilk absolutely _frothing mad_. Abdul was quite alright with it, however. He did not care what got the fodder moving as long as they were between him and potential danger.

* * *

><p>"And I can attest to it – Arabs <em>hate<em> hearing that. The sister part especially, I mean." said Selim solemnly.

"That's your master plan? _I fucked your mom, and your sister, too?_ Seriously? Well, points for style, at least!" Alfie shook her short red hair in amusement.

"Roll a Bluff check to provoke them into charging you. Given that they're sort-of fantasy Arabs, no offence Selim..."

"None taken."

"... you get a +2 circumstance bonus on the roll."

"Rolling. Yessss. By the skin of my teeth." Oliver had made his roll, if only barely. Now they were going to have some fun. "How small are those clay jars?"

"Pretty small, cup-sized, and the crate's lid is not nailed shut, why?"

"Oh, you'll see..."

* * *

><p>The young thugs could no longer be controlled, their passions running wild. No outlander scum could ever say that and be allowed to live afterwards Before the end of the day, his head would be the newest kick-ball of the local urchins, his entrails would feed the stray dogs and the rest would fatten the fish in the harbor.<p>

This they yelled to the vile outlander, then valiantly charged... onto a sharp-tipped carpet of pain. The young thugs, six in number, then proceeded to hop about ridiculously and unleash a stream of vile oaths, all the while being pelted by clay jars filled with oil. Abdul sighed. If you wanted a job done, you had to do it yourself. Ah well, at least now he could claim more of the credit for his own.

The young fools had cleared away most of the caltrops. Time to take care of business the old-fashioned way – at the tip of a sword. But it was alright, he was an old-fashioned man himself. He drew his scimitar and grinned – a mouth of dagger-like rotten teeth. Gingerly, he started making his way past the stray caltrops that still remained on the gang-plank. He hadn't killed anyone in over two tendays – too long. As he approached, the northerner got his shield out, but his blades were still sheathed. And he had a wicked grin on his face.

In his sword-hand he held a clay jar with a lit rag at the end, almost like a...

* * *

><p>"Well, they're buggered. If only they hadn't hopped so far away from the water, they could have jumped in to extinguish the flames." Chris was on one side, a little disappointed that he'd failed his rolls, as he had hoped for a battle royal on the pier, and on the other hand elated, as he'd secretly hoped Oliver's plan would work. It had been just so cool, it <em>had<em> to work!

The six level 1 warriors, which had made up that ill-fated bandit band send to capture Bryn Riderion, now lay smoldering on the pier, their cooked corpses still burning. It was fascinating – and a bit gruesome – how realistically their agony had been presented by the holographic system. They hadn't made it to the water – their eyes had burst due the heat, like overripe grapes. At least death had come quickly, level 1 warriors didn't have a lot of hit points to burn a truly long time to death.

"Chalk up six more kills for the B-man, strangler and arsonist extraordinaire."

The others started to applaud, even Wahya and Isabel, who looked a bit nauseous. Oliver got up and took a bow with a smile. Chris almost regretted having to rain on his parade. Almost. Oliver was a nice, quiet sort of dude, but when he got cocky, oh boy...

* * *

><p>Abdul's façade finally cracked. That diabolical stranger had evaded capture at the tea-house, melted into the crowd, most likely killed the young fool he'd left to guard that route to the docks, and then <em>incinerated<em> his entire gods-damned patrol. No-one made a fool of Abdul the Man-Splitter, and lived to...

And then the small stranger moved, drawing one of his wicked curved knives, putting his shield forward and starting towards him with a belly-slash all in a series of swift, flowing movements, sinuous like a desert viper.

* * *

><p>"Roll for initiative." Quick roll of the dice later, Oliver won. His luck had to run out eventually, Chris thought.<p>

Oliver said, "I Quick Draw a knife, then use Stone Bones maneuver, slashing at his belly with my kukri, does a 15 hit?"

"Yep, roll for damage."

"3 on 1d4 roll plus 2 Strength bonus is 5 damage."

Chris said, "You erode his fighting confidence."

"No belly wound oozing blood then?"

"You agreed to this interpretation of hit points before we even started. Remember how it was before, every hit an injury? Orcs still walking about missing half their organs, after a 20 damage blow had left them with 2 or 3 hit points? It was goddamn retarded, so from now on, most of the hit points of a creature are its confidence in victory, or at least survival. Only when it's down to a small fraction of its initial life bar, does it start taking injuries, except for special cases, like cutting off the heads of hydras, etc."

Oliver replied, "You won't hear me complaining, just as long as I can leave escaping villains with a scar or two as a memento."

"All right then."

* * *

><p>Bryn focused his vital energy, just as his instructors had taught him, into the blade of his knife, drawing on the power of the two blades clashing to build up his resilience for the inevitable counter-attack. The Stone Bones strike of the Stone Dragon school of the Sublime Art was one of the earliest such attacks martial initiates learned, but an effective one. Now he could take more punishment for a short while, either on his shield or worse, on his now-hardened flesh.<p>

The fat thug barely parried the blow, then brought the scimitar to a two-handed diagonal downward slash meant to decapitate the brazen young whoreson. That first strike had scared him good. The bastard had used... something, some sort of magical attack on him. He'd seen how the wicked curved knife had shone on impact with his trusty scimitar. Damn it all, this was _supposed_ _to be_ _easy_!

* * *

><p>Now it was the DM's turn to roll for an attack. "What's your AC?"<p>

"16 - leather armor, heavy wooden shield and 3 Dexterity bonus."

**RULES**

Armour Class is the protection afforded by armor shields, magical items, tough hides/carapace or magic spells to creatures. A physical attack, in order to hit, has to get past the defender's AC. If the total attack number (d20 roll plus any attack bonuses) surpasses the defender's AC, then the attack hits and causes damage. Or not, depending on whether the defender is immune to that damage type, or resistant, or even on the same plane of existence (ethereal, immaterial etc), like ghosts.

"The thug hits, rolling for damage, 4 on 1d6 plus 3 Strength bonus, cause he's wielding that scimitar two-handed, is 7 slashing damage."

"Reduced by 5 down to 2 damage you mean. A successful attack with Stone Bones gives me damage reduction 5 versus everything except adamantine weapons for 1 round, that is, for this attack."

"Oh that's right. You're lucky I allowed _Tome of Battle_ for this campaign."

"I am, 7 damage means half my total health."

"Well, the bandit leader IS level 2."

"What? I'm level 1... I gotta end this soon then."

* * *

><p>Bryn's eyes went wide as he saw the blade rushing to connect with his neck. He pulled his shield upwards enough to deflect the blow comfortably. The scimitar ricocheted off the metal edge and bit into his left leather pauldron through his desert tunic, hard enough to cause a serious bruise, but it thankfully didn't penetrate.<p>

It was time to finish this. He simulated a shield bash and a stab attack towards the fat bastard's right side, meant to slip under his leather cuirass. Shield bash meant to distract the target from the stab. The fatso moved to parry the stab, simultaneously leaving nearly half of his left side unprotected. The young merc's two attacks had been just meant to pave the way for his coup-de-grace.

He stabbed his left foot forward, closing the distance, then, like a snake, whipped his arm to the left and gingerly slipped the kukri into the man's exposed throat, twisting it into the wound for good measure. As he twisted the knife, he whispered to his dying enemy, "Feel not ashamed that you fall by my hand. You fought well, and you die well. I am Bryn Riderion, Factotum of War. I await a rematch when you are next reborn."

The mercenary watched as the fat man who'd dogged him all the way here slipped gurgling into the empire of death, his crimson life-fluid staining the water below. In the end, he had proven worthy of _some_ of his respect. All in all, not a bad way to go. There were worse ways. He'd seen some of them first-hand.

* * *

><p>"Oh my God, you killed..."<p>

"Seriously Selim, it was funny the first time, but isn't funny right now. We have just witnessed – _awesome_. It was like... an action movie." said Alfie. She'd been awed by the whole scene.

"I second zat motion." said Fedor. His barbarian would have to top that, _somehow_...

"Cool. First critical hit of the campaign." The young DM had been impressed by Oliver's narration of the critical hit sequence. It made perfect sense how someone could fall for this, especially if they were not an absolute master of their craft.

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong>

A critical hit is most often a "natural 20" - in layman's terms, a 20 on the d20. This means that the damage done on that attack is doubled, tripled or even quadrupled, depending on the weapon or attack. Except sneak attack damage. Then it would be just silly. It also depends on the crit range of a weapon. For example: a dagger or kukri has a crit range of 18-20, meaning it could critical hit on a result of 18, 19 or 20. It has a crit multiplier of x2, meaning double damage on a crit.

* * *

><p>Oliver was delighted by his luck, and rolled his damage die, a d4 in this case for his kukri. "Ahhh, just what the doctor ordered. 4 on a 1d4 plus 2 Strength bonus, 6 doubled means 12 whole damage. Does it drop him?"<p>

"Seeing as I let you narrate a throat-stab, yes, he drops like a bag of rocks, and falls backwards on the gang-plank. Mooks, that is, non-boss opponents, don't get to roll to stabilize when in negative hit points, they just die."

"Works for me. No time to spare for looting, regrettably. Rolling Awareness, how many onlookers can see me right now?"

"Success. People on two to three ships on either side of the _Sow_ have been watching the fight with interest, including workers on the docks. This is a rare treat for them. They're placing wagers on whether you'll get away or not."

Oliver grinned. "Always bet on Bryn. I intend to give them their money's worth. I count how many ships are between the _Sow_ and my hired evac boat."

"Five, merchant ships and a mercenary war galley."

After mumbling to himself and counting the 5-foot squares that were between Bryn and freedom, then quickly estimating his swim speed and lung capacity, he said,"I use Cunning Knowledge to..."

Chris interrupted the South-African. "Sorry, wait, what ability is that?"

"An ability from the factotum class. Remember, Bryn's a gestalt. Cunning Knowledge gives me a bonus on a skill check with a skill that I have at least 1 point in, equal to my class level, once per day per skill. In this case 1."

"Right. Go on."

"I plunge into the harbor's waters, making a Swim check to which I add my Cunning Knowledge bonus, meaning 1. Rolling..."

"Made it. By the skin of your teeth actually. What next?"

The South-African teen smiled. "I swim around the _Treasonous Sow_ until I get near and behind the rudder, so no-one leaning over the sides of a ship or on the docks can see me. Then I dive beneath the surface. I counted the ships beforehand so I know how many keels I have to swim under. I have a Constitution of 14, so worst case scenario, I fail my Swim check, I can hold my breath for 28 rounds. This way I'll have no people watching as I board my evac boat."

"Make those Swim checks. Remember, it's once per round while in the water. Fail by four or less, and you can't move. Fail by five or more... and you start to sink."

* * *

><p>He eventually emerged off the port side of the ship he'd hired for his escape. As he'd arranged beforehand, a knotted rope had been left hanging off the stern of the dhow so he could climb aboard. He'd leave nothing to chance, so the mercenary ascended quickly onto the deck. While he shed his sodden outfit and got changed, he told the waiting captain to cast off, immediately.<p>

The sooner he was far, far away from this port town, the better.

As he changed into a dry travel outfit, he breathed in the sea air greedily. It smelled of freedom.

He'd relaxed too soon. He who makes the last mistake, loses.

* * *

><p>"Awareness check."<p>

Oliver rolled, was told he'd failed, then went wide-eyed as the DM rolled his d20 for an attack, hit, and asked for six-sided dies.

"Wait, what the hell..."

"An elite bounty hunter sneaked aboard while you were taking that refreshing swim of yours in the harbor. He did 42 nonlethal damage, including sneak attack. I'm afraid you're out cold. The guys that hunt you sort of want you alive, rather badly."

Oliver grumbled. "That's three times my max hit points. You sort of promised you'd stop forcing us to go one way or another."

Alfie jumped to his defense. "Olly's right, that was a shit move, DM."

"Oliver, please. I hate diminutives."

"Olly, Olly, Olly." she said in a sing-song voice.

"Nice. Very mature." he grumbled.

The DM intervened to get them back on track. "Won't you just trust me for a moment? I have a plan for something I think you'll like. A lot."

Fedor commented, "You mean another one of those gladiator arena scenarios vhere ve have to fight for ze amusement of ze crowd (and our own), then escape in an awesome way? Oh that's right, ve did zat last game. Still liked it."

But Oliver was not quite done. "Wait, so the crew didn't notice him as he sneaked aboard? Or were they paid off to betray me? Because I suspected the crew of the trade cog to give me up."

"Hey, if the dhow would've been named the _Treasonous Sow_, then you would've _suspected_ a betrayal. You'd suspect Mother Theresa of betraying us to the little green space men if she rubbed you the wrong way. And FYI, they were paid off to give you up."

"See? This is a very good reason why I'm paranoid." Oliver continued in a calm tone, "You did a good job on my segment DM, even _if_ you decided to rail-road me into whatever you have planned. I quite enjoyed it."

Chris was a little relieved. One down, seven more to go. "Well I'm glad. It's you that chose the setting though, and your character background gave me something to work with, so no biggie."

"Before I went down, did I see the face of the one that dropped me?"

"Yes you did – the ugly, grinning, square-jawed face of a man with cruel eyes, pockmarked with scars, and long dark hair..."

"Hold on," said Alfie, "he looks like Danny Trejo, right? Come on, I know you're a big fan of his."

The blond DM smiled sheepishly. "Guilty as charged. You got ganked by a perfect look-alike of Danny Trejo."

Oliver smirked. "Well, I suppose that softens the blow. He _is_ pretty awesome, after all."

* * *

><p>Chris said, "Well that was fun, but now, it's Wahya's turn."<p>

"Heck yes, let's do this, Leeeeeeeeeeeeroyyyyyyyy Jeeeeennnkiiiins!" She looked pretty hyper, and slightly glassy-eyed, which was not normal behavior for her.

Abigail stopped rummaging around in the goodie bags. "Hey, has anyone seen a box of bon-bons... somewhere... oh don't tell me... So, Wahya ate it all."

"Sowwy... but...they were just_ so good_. And when I get excited I have this urge to stuff myself, and that candy was closest to hand... and yeah..." she said sheepishly.

The blond DM asked, "So, what was in that candy?"

"Liquor with a fairly high level of alcohol, by the looks of it."

"So she's drunk. From eating candy." Chris said in a flat voice.

"You _are_ supposed to eat only a few pieces at a time, mind you."

Wahya started protesting."Drunk, nothing! I can still roll a dee-twenty with the best of 'em...whoever _'em_ are..."

Charlie chuckled. "What a lightweight. Still, D&D while drunk, haven't seen that one before. Game on!" Almost everyone was amused by this turn of events, and started chanting, "Game on! Game on!" over and over.

Chris eventually gave in. "Whatever. Game on. You've got one game day to do... something... before your scene starts. So, Wahya, where does you character start?"

"In the jungle, the miiiighty jun-gle..."

"In a... jungle?"

"Nahhh, I just love that song. I have this all figured out. Now take notes, friends, and you might even learn something." She wrote a note quickly, passed it to the Dungeon Master, who approved of what she'd planned, then quickly fiddled with the character creator, and began...

* * *

><p><em>Hello readers. Real-life has been kicking my ass up to this point.<em>

_I'm sorry for not posting anything for about 3 months (or was it 4?), but time flies when you're busy and/or depressed. First, there was an inspiration shortage, then two brief family vacations, one to the seaside, one in the mountains, both of which where fun and relaxing, then the depression, still-messy house and arguing parents hit me again._

_After this, we left with a few friends to celebrate my brother's 19__th__ birthday at the seaside, and we spent a lovely week being beach bums – sleeping in a tent, lounging around on the beach, making new friends, going to a free folk concert, reading, writing, getting drunk (or attempting to), and just day-dreaming, the friendly atmosphere and primal sound of waves embracing beach rocking us to sleep..._

_Meanwhile, a few games including RuneScape, Saints Row 3, Homeworld 1, X-Com UFO Defense and a few others, more recently Skyrim, took turns to make my free time their bitch. And then in September we had to enroll my littlest sister to school, 1__st__ grade general school. She's adorable in pig-tails and her widdle blue dress : 3 But when I came back from our seaside camping trip in August, I swear, first thing I did was to open my Notebook of Note-taking, and started thrashing my crude work into a bearable chapter. I agonized over it for over a month, before finally deciding this morning, "Eh screw it, it's good enough. Time to split this one in half and post __something__."_

_Lately I've begun to help mom a whole lot more and we're getting a handle on the general situation, my littlest sister is doing well in school, __and your kind, constructive reviews, along with a few additional views and faves, have helped me get my rear into high-gear and start producing literature again.__ I hesitate to call it "quality literature" - that will be for you readers to decide. The new chapters will be quite large, and given my faffing-about-to-action-ratio, quite action-packed by comparison, also (I hope, I PRAY), noticeably better than my previous work. _

_Wow, 447 views, 14 reviews, 7 faves and 8 story alerts as of October 1__st__ 2012. Many, many thanks. The attention does my fragile ego a galaxy of good, as I am surprised, pleased and humbled by the continued support from my small but seemingly expanding readership. _

_This is Dumbledore is Gay, signing off until next time._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes 28th May 2013:<strong>

**Not much I can do for the formatting of the last part of this chapter at this time, sorry. Re-uploaded with better sentence structure and paragraph formatting, plus spelling errors corrected. Enjoy, for what it's worth.**

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong> – 261 words. **ACTUAL STORYTIME** - 9092 words. **NARRATOR BIT** – 175 words. **Author's Notes** – 562 words.


	7. Interlude - Tragedy and Hope

**A.N:** UPDATE! You may now scream in delight... or fright. I'll wait. Finished? OK then.

I hope you have a Forgotten Realms world map in front of yer eyes for the rest of The Abominations Unleashed, and any eventual Interludes, because these chapters will take you all over the world: North and South, East and West, ice and fire, civilization and wilderness.

I recommend the Forgotten Realms World Map on ** . **

Much easier than looking at the Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting book every time I need geographical info.

Enjoy the story, sorry for the long wait. I am slower than molasses, than a snail, than an Ice Age. I know, believe me. Real life has been causing me problems, not the least of all an unexpected financial crisis in my family. Oh, and many thanks for the views that kept coming even when I hadn't posted for a looooong while.

Please focus your criticism on:

-dialogue

-paragraph formatting

-combat scenes

-story flow

-plus a personal nitpick or two. Or three. Or a dozen. I know I have a few.

Also, are the player dialogue bits too numerous? Are they annoying?

I'm trying to make a compromise between recreating a realistic game session – including interruptions by the players and DM – and telling a good or at least decent story. Tell me how's that working out. Or you know, criticize whatever. As long as it helps me improve as a writer, I'm OK with it. As always, Please Examine And Critique Honestly (PEACH).

Thank you.

* * *

><p>Previously, on the Gospel of Chris (read in a booming narrator voice for added effect):<p>

_An awesome time was had by all, as they watched the daring escape attempt by Bryn Riderion, rogue commando extraordinaire. On the cusp of freedom, he was captured by the pet bounty hunter of an unknown mage in purple. What purpose does he have in taking the young Tethyrian prisoner? What unspeakably-horrible cliches are in store for the rest of our heroes, not yet introduced? What sort of D&D can be played by a drunken Native American geek? Prepare thyself reader, this story is only just beginning._

* * *

><p><strong>1353 Dale Reckoning – Forest of Cormanthor, the Ordulin-Highmoon Road<strong>

The fresh pine scent was amazing. No matter how long he'd breathe it in, it would never get dull. Aelthas Telstaerr breathed deeply, held it in, then exhaled, his powerful chest heaving with a satisfied sigh. This had been worth the long sea voyage, and the bumpy, dusty road they were driving their wagon on. Forests of pine and such on a sunny day looked and smelled as good as he'd been brought up to believe. His granddad, a former scribe and employee at a big-town newspaper, used to sit with him and his sisters by the fire and read them all sorts of stories. His favorites were the adventure stories that were printed every two weeks in the paper. And now, he supposed, it was his turn to live an adventure as well.

Ahhh, the open road, fir trees all around, birds chirping in the trees. By all rights it should have distracted him from his troubles. It didn't, even if, as far as adventures went, this was finer and cozier than most. He lost himself in thought – his mind gazing into the past, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. How far would a man with his money-troubles would have to flee to escape his tormentors, or the threat of poverty?

* * *

><p>Chris frowned."Wait, what's this got to do with your character intro?"<p>

Wahya was still sloshed. It was quite funny actually. Nobody in the group had ever seen her even mildly drunk.

"Back story, trust me. Hey, any more of those uhhh, bon-bons left?"

Abby shook her blond ponytail and glared at her friend.

"No, you ate 'em all. I think you have enough alcohol wreaking merry havoc in your blood as it is."

Wahya protested. "N-no I don't! I play better when I'm drunk! And I'll PROVE it! I think."

But Chris wasn't letting up. "Back story for who? Multiple characters per player aren't allowed, you know."

"For my character's pants I MEAN PARENTS. She wasn't always a druids-druidess-druid-person. Unreal*hic*istic. Bon-bons please?"

"No!"

The blond DM assented. "Well alright, let's see where this goes."

* * *

><p>Aelthas Telstaerr's loans had started small, but had escalated soon enough. The winter had been harsh, and his mother-in-law Sinda had taken ill. He may have disliked the old bat, but he could scarcely leave his wife's mam to die of the chills. The remedies of the wise women were not proving useful, so he'd gone to the temples to beg for a cure. The townsfolk had been fooled by the priests of Waukeen, the Goddess of Trade and Profit, into driving out the local sect of nonviolent healers. The sect-people preached their silly beliefs of reincarnation and the circle of life in peace and healed people for free. The money-priests did not care for it, because they actually charged for their services. The sect people had done nothing wrong except drawing worshipers away from the Waukeenars.<p>

* * *

><p>Oliver looked at his cellphone. "Clock's ticking. No offense, but could you wrap up the intro a bit faster? Or at least give us a summary? We're waiting in line to play, after all."<p>

The young narrator replied, "Keep your pants on. It ain't gonna take long, I plomish... promise. Okay? Or was it 'keep your shirt on'? I dunno, onwards!"

* * *

><p>The local pottery market had crashed due to some damn fool making a golem that was churning them out by the cartload, and his decent earnings were suddenly cut short. An angry crowd had eventually lynched the golem-maker and his creation. But the damage had already been done. He could hardly sell any of his wares every day, the money was drying up, and soon they'd been forced to dip into their life-savings. The pottery market was ruined for months to come, at least. A small child (his first) to care for, a funeral for his wife's mother, and rumors of a war stirring between the neighboring nations of Aglarond and Thay were compelling arguments to move.<p>

Across the inland Sea of Fallen Stars they sailed, over to Deepingdale. The Dalelands were some of the oldest lands of humanity still standing, colonized over a thousand years ago. The Elven Court of Cormanthyr had allowed humans to settle in the more open regions of the forest, and had raised a mighty Standing Stone to immortalize this contract between the races. The year had been know as the Year of Sunrise, or 1 Dale Reckoning (DR). Folk could make a good living as farmers there.

* * *

><p>Charlie deadpanned, "Whoa, that's a big info-dump you just took there, girl."<p>

Alfie sniggered, "Heheh, 'dump'."

Fedor butted it. "Wow, his life sucks. And I thought living in Sankt Petersburg vas bad."

Abigail whispered, "Shush, I wanna see how long she lasts before it gets ridiculous."

"Don't you mean even more ridiculous?" replied Fedor.

Wahya said, "Jussssst for that, you're getting the full gamut of drama. No comedy in this back-story no sirree. Role-playing is SERIOUS BUSINESS. You guys wouldn't know role-playing if it bit you in the... where was I?" They let her ramble on without interruptions for awhile, and turned their attention back to the amazing game mat. It recreated everything that Wahya said in real-time, high-definition holographic glory.

* * *

><p><strong>New directive received. Modifying perception and broadcasting new scenario... Complete<strong>.

* * *

><p>The view and smells were gorgeous, but the bumpy ride was less so. Now they were passing a dead... something, with four short legs, an arrow sticking out of it, barely visible in the roadside ditch. Poachers had lost sight of a kill mayhap. The barrel-chested, dark-haired former potter didn't know if it had been a wolf, deer, badger or some sort of monster. It was swarming with flies, wasps, maggots and rats, all eagerly fighting over the unexpected feast. He leaned to his right, trusting in the sure-footed shire horse to keep the wagon on track, angling for a better view.<p>

That's when the wind decided to betray him.

Aelthas, personally, loved the wind. Cool in summer, creator of melodies using plants and leaves, engine of maritime shipping – it seemed like there was nothing it couldn't do. But the wind had decided to play a 'rotten' trick on its admirer, pardon the pun. Instead of a refreshing breeze, bearing the scent of pine and earthy forest floor caressing his face, the sickly sweet stench of carrion assaulted his nostrils. He'd been enthusiastic over the trip so far, but the mood had been... spoiled.

A pretty auburn-haired head poked out from under the wagon cover into the sunlight. She smiled at him. "Lunch is ready, husband. Bread and cheese and a little slice of that salted pork ye fell in love with. Sometimes I wonder if ye love your food more than your... what's with your face? It's like you've seen a ghost."

Just like Blaera, to hop from one subject to another. Sharp wit, sharper tongue and impressive aim with a crossbow. They had served in the town militia part-time. He'd once seen her plug an arrogant mercenary in the arse with a bolt from two hundred feet away. But all the love in the world couldn't stop him from retching due to the stench. Just a little.

"The ghost of a ghost more like, dearest. We just passed an animal carcass on the way. Swarming with vermin it was, and a smell to wake the dead. Had an arrow sticking out o' its back. Mayhap a fool adventurer took a potshot at some poor creature."

Blaera frowned. "Hold, what kind of arrow was it? You can usually tell by the fletching."

"And any old fool can dye his fletching any old color. I know that at least, dear. It was in the poor thing's back and swarming with maggots and such."

"Pray, stop the wagon, Aelthas. We've more than enough time to get where we're going."

"...What?" He knew that eager look on her face. She dearly wanted to know what kind of arrow had felled that animal. Never mind that it was stuck in a corpse. Her passion in life was missile weaponry, and the firing thereof, and he'd never hear the end of it if they didn't take a look. Stubborn woman.

He rolled his eyes.

"Oh come now, please?"

"I suppose I can expect me pork ration to stop if I don't halt the blooming wagon..."

"Yes husband, I expect ye can." she replied with an impish smile.

* * *

><p>"Hah hah, he's under his wife's thumb. Sucks to be him." Alfie was butting in again.<p>

Seems like no one could resist poking and prodding at poor drunk Wahya, seeing what sort of reactions they'd get out of her. Wahya blurted out, "Yeah well, sucks to be 'im. Big strong man like him, tee-hee. What? Don'tcha like women being empowered Alfie? I thought you liked women, oops sorry, I mean women being empowered and... junk."

Alfie said in a neutral tone, "Women being empowered is nice and all, but I wanna know what's gonna happen next. In English, not Sumerian."

Isabel replied imperiously, "And you will, if you'll _stop interrupting_." To Wahya, "Go on, please."

* * *

><p>The wagon travelers dismounted, armed themselves and approached to take a closer look.<p>

The carcass was less than 20 feet away and literally buried in vermin.

The travelers dismounted, armed themselves and approached to take a closer look.

The carcass was less than 20 feet away and literally buried in vermin.

They both had rough scarves over their faces to ward off the smell. It wasn't helping much.

They arrived at the corpse. The former potter was not happy.

"Verily, it's the corpse of a critter with an arrow through its back. It's starting to smell ripe in the heat. Mystery solved. May we leave now?"

Blaera shook her mop of auburn hair. "Not yet. I want to remove the arrow, little souvenir of our journey to the Dalelands. Gods know, it might be magical."

Aelthas was quite adamant that they should leave things be. He gestured with his staff.

"The arrow might be cursed for all you know. Or poisoned. Or this carcass might be a... a walking dead-thing, luring us into an ambush!"

"I say take it. If it's magical, we could use the coin."

"If it's undead, it ups and eats us woman, don't be daft!"

Blaera turned and smiled. "If it's undead, we put it down again. Why'd you think we brought these? "She gestured to her light crossbow and his quarterstaff.

"Aye, these weapons are fine and dandy, but we're nae adventurers. I'd rather leave it... be..."

Blaera had gone down to one knee in the dusty road, and was examining the arrow up close. The corpse-eating vermin started to swarm away, shooed away by the blasted human that had shown up to claim their prize. He sighed theatrically. "Oh ye gods, what will I do with you?" He got into position to watch his wife's back.

As she was examining the arrow, little did the two travelers know that they were being examined as well.

* * *

><p>"Oooooohhhhh, ominous." said everyone in a choir.<p>

Their timing had been both amusing and slightly disturbing.

Even Isabel couldn't resist joining in.

"Quiet, you. It'sh MY story-time now. You get yoursh later."

Chris snapped out of his reverie.

He'd become engrossed in Wahya's story, despite the frequent interruptions.

But the fact that the two travelers were being watched triggered an alarm bell in his head.

"Oh God, encounter. Where are my notes, where the FU..."

"Clam down, I MEAN calm down. Check the DMG."

Thank God for NPC sample stat blocks.

Relieved, he started rifling through his Dungeon Master's Guide.

* * *

><p>The young bandit removed his hand from his bow in order to scratch his arse. Gods-damned pine needles, getting into his britch-OW! He bit his tongue in the haste to stop a squeal of pain from escaping. His older comrade, hidden behind the same massive Dalelands fir tree as he was, had elbowed him hard.<p>

"Hands off yer arse and on yer weapon!" he hissed. "Rotting illness take you, chief 'll be giving the attack signal soon."

* * *

><p>Chris stopped inputting bandit stat-blocks in the tablet's game program and frowned.<p>

"Wait, I don't get it. They stopped their important journey to look at an arrow they just happened to see, stuck in a corpse in a ditch? Gee, can you spell 'contrived'?"

"Hey, I couldn't think of anything else! It just popped into my head, just seemed... appropriate, I dunno. It felt... right, I guess." *hic*

Chris smirked. " 'It felt right'? Spent all your creativity budget already?"

For a moment there, Wahya looked as is she were gazing far away.

She half-hardheartedly shrugged.

The DM relented. "Well OK, let's see where this goes."

* * *

><p>"Well, time to see if I was right, husband, or if you were... and we get eaten." said Blaera jokingly.<p>

Her man grumbled, never taking his eyes off their surroundings.

She grasped the arrow tightly, and pulled. It was out. The last of the bigger vermin streamed away.

She froze, for she had discovered two things.

"Umm, Aelthas?"

"Yes, wife?"

"You said good neighbor Tiggal left ahead of us?"

"Aye, he did. First off the ship and to the rented wagons place, Tiggal was. Said he was gonna get a head start on the growing season. Lucky sod. Why?"

"Or rather not-so-lucky sod." Blaera waved him over and pointed down at the corpse. It had the same crude, stupid tattoo of a unicorn with a four-leaf clover sticking out of its bum, on the back of its neck. That tattoo had been the pride and joy of their neighbor of ten years. The skin was scratched and caked with dried blood, but it was still there... It was the only thing they could still recognize of poor Tiggal. His face had been partially eaten, the limbs were gone at the knees and elbows. He had died painfully.

For you and me, this would be murder. For regular bandit gangs, it would be a bit extreme.

For this group, this was standard operating procedure. It was just setting up bait.

And their prey had been caught – hook, line and sinker.

* * *

><p>The DM said, "Roll Awareness for the character's parents."<p>

"They don't have it trained. No skill points in it." said Wahya.

"-2 penalty then, I think. Can't be assed to check."

She rolled the die. "Will a 7 do?"

Chris answered, "Let me roll Stealth for the bandits. Nope, with a -2 penalty it's 5 Awareness, you fail. They got a 3 on the d20, but they've got a bonus of +5, 8 in total."

Wahya was unconvinced. "+5 on Stealth? What're you pulling? Also, my buzz is wearing off."

"14 Dexterity and a Stealth skill of +3. Nowhere near optimal. Look, they're bandits, they've got some practice and skill at this. Your character's parents, don't."

Fedor grunted, "Prepare for major headache und nausea once ze buzz wears off. I would know."

At last Wahya had become a little bit cooler, even _if_ she'd gotten drunk off stupid liquor bon-bons.

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong>

For _skill rolls_, you roll the d20, factor in any relevant bonuses (bonii?) or penalties, then you compare the result to the target number of the action. Say, a Stealth check of Difficulty Class (DC) 15. If your total roll of the d20 plus bonuses meets or exceeds 15, you've succeeded. If it doesn't, you've failed and are discovered by whomever you were trying to stealth by. Some skills are opposed by rolls from other skills. For example, Hide/Move Silently (Chris and the guys are using Stealth instead of these two) are opposed by Spot/Listen (or Awareness in this case). If the Stealth check beats the Awareness check, then you sneak past undetected. If not, then your Dungeon Master will let you know, in no uncertain terms, that you fucked up.

* * *

><p>The leader of the bandits, a large blond scarred man in leather armor, with a powerful composite bow, grinned from cover. The targets were like lambs to the slaughter. The woman couldn't resist the lure of an obviously magical arrow stuck through the back of a fool farmer they'd cut up for fun. Just like the Boss had said. He didn't know why the mage in purple robes would even bother with pissant dirt-grubbers like these. And he didn't care. Folks that poked their noses in wizard's affairs tended to die very messy deaths.<p>

* * *

><p>The blond DM reached for his die and rolled. "Rolling initiative. 6 plus Dexterity bonus 2 is... 8. Dangit. Your turn."<p>

Wahya reached for her green d20, rolled in the dice tray, and nodded in satisfaction.

"Well, your pet bandits might get the surprise round, but they better make it count. 18 on the die plus Dex bonus 2 means my parents DAMN IT I MEANT my character's parents go first."

Chris panicked a little bit. "_Keep your voice down_! I barely got _my_ parents to agree to let me host this game here, with eight people. I _don't_ need crap from my neighbors."

"Calm down, geez. Sorry."

* * *

><p>At the scarred leader's signal, all bandits strung arrows, rose from cover and started firing.<p>

Surprise was achieved, arrows went flying... and achieved sod-all.

"Rolling for attacks... misses all. Some arrows now decorate the outside of the wagon. Your turn, Wahya."

"Hah, those free attacks from surprise were for nothing." The girl grabbed at her dice, stopped, then got up and left for the kitchen. She returned, waving a bottle of vodka triumphantly. Chris cocked an eyebrow.

Fedor said in a flat voice, "Vat the flying fuck are you doing, woman?"

She uncorked the bottle, took a swig, grimaced, then took another swig. "Boozing, what's it look like? Gotta get this elixir to work its mojo. I'm ten times the gamer I am when I'm drinking!"

Abigail shook her head sadly. "Buggering bugbears, we've created a monster."

Fedor agreed. "Pocahontas und fire-water Do Not Mix."

She took a third swig, stoppered the bottle, and set about rolling dice with abandon.

* * *

><p>Everything began to slow down.<p>

Space and time had become as thick as molasses. Blaera saw the projectiles flowing from the tree line. She dropped in a crouch and snapped off a shot. Her quarrel flew past bandit arrows and tasted a foeman's flesh. She'd avoided death, returned fire, now it was time to escape. Her man had not been hit either and was already moving towards the wagon.

Two volleys of arrows plunged into wood and thankfully not flesh. Blaera reached the wagon first, with Aelthas close behind. He gave her a boost on the run – hand on arse, and a mighty push. While she took up firing position, he threw himself into the driver's seat. A quick yell later, and they were off. It had gone as clockwork, just like they'd drilled. It payed to be prepared.

* * *

><p>"Boo-yah! Two volleys fired, two volleys missed! My druid-person's parents are AWE-SOME! FREA-KING AWE-SOME!"<p>

Abigail said, "More like freaking awesome luck at dice, you mean. Sit down and relax. And lay off the drink."

Fedor grumbled, "Sit down and shut ze hell up. Und leave more than a few drops of vodka for ze rest of us!"

"See? They planned ahead and their plan worked! Told you they were awesome!"

The DM grinned. "Your druid's parents aren't the only ones with a plan. Actually..."

* * *

><p>The bandit chief had had enough. As bandits further up the road loosed arrows on the fleeing wagon and its occupants, he signaled to one of his archers. The archer drew a specially-prepared signal arrow, set fire to its fuse, and fired it upwards. High above their heads, it burst into alchemical purple sparks, easily seen for miles. It was the signal for his backup to arrive. The mage wanted that family alive, and by the Hells he was gonna get it. Never mind that now he'd have to share the reward with the backup. They'd made a fool of him, and the farmers would pay.<p>

The covered wagon lurched into motion. The arrow storm had motivated the shire draft horse to new heights of speed. She ducked behind the old wooden shields, nailed to the back of the wagon as cover. The canvas roof had been torn here and there by arrow fire. The sack of food had taken hits and the water barrel was leaking. All irrelevant.

"How's the baby, wife?"

"Checking now, husband. You hurt?"

"Thanks to the buggering militia drills you buggered into me head, no. It weren't a waste o' time after all. You're right however; would've been safer to leave earlier with the convoy."

" 'The early bird gets the worm', Aelthas. We _would've_ been with the convoy now and _safer_ if you hadn't haggled for pork so much."

* * *

><p>"Heheh, 'bugger'." sniggered Alfie. Everyone else shushed her.<p>

"You forgot 'pork'." whispered Oliver. Everyone else shushed him as well.

* * *

><p>As they were having their exchange, Blaera had reached the baby's cot. Her man's proficiency with cheating at cards had come in handy. That weaponry merchant had never know what hit him. 'Twas his own damn fault for having a passion for cards and poor luck. At least he honored his debts. The cot had been armored with four steel kite shields fixed to the sides, front and back, plus a light mail shirt draped above. Baby's first fortress.<p>

She gazed within and was greeted by the sweetest smiling face in the planes – her daughter. Little Fearow had her big, brown, wonderful eyes and her father's raven hair. The very light shade-of-cacao skin she'd inherited from an ancestor from Turmish, either of hers or Aelthas. Small holes and spaces had been reserved for the flow of fresh air, especially across her face. She was busy playing around with a wooden wolf doll and a few balls of clean rag, undisturbed by the trouble that had befallen them.

* * *

><p>Isabel immediately started gushing about how cute the "widdle baby" was, comparing her with a box of kittens and other such diabetes-inducing things.<p>

Abigail rolled her eyes. "Oh _please no_, you're giving _me_ diabetes just by speaking."

"On please don't. What would ve tell ze paramedics if you go into coma?" sniggered Fedor.

Chris shook his head. "Don't encourage her, guys. She's just trolling you."

Isabel grinned and answered, "Just a little harmless teasing."

Oliver deadpanned "A friend of mine once threw a kitten off a tall building. We heard a _splat_ and that was that."

Charlie said "Well that shit's just cold. He an asshole."

"That he is."

Isabel was mortified. "Did you honestly spend your time with _hoodlums like that_?!"

Oliver and Charlie locked gazes and grinned in unison. "Counter-troll Achieved."

Selim smiled. "You mad, Isabel?"

Alfie was bored."Enough of this intense and prolonged gayness. Let's see what the hell happens next. I'd like to take my turn _sometime this century_."

"But seriously. A friend of mine really did that."

"Shut up Olly. Olly Olly."

* * *

><p>Reassured, Blaera took her post at the back of the wagon and started to scan the road and treeline. All clear – just a dusty road and bird-songs, forest trees and sunshine. She was quite pleased. It's not everyday you see your hard work paying off. After the tense escape, Aelthas was in the mood for chatting.<p>

"Gods above, I can't believe we did it. Say, they might have newspapers in Deepingdale as well. Sell our story to the paper maybe, become famous!"

"Or become dead, husband. Think you our pursuers _don't_ read the paper now and again? Even if it becomes bum-fodder afterward. Would they not put two and two together?"

"You mean recognize it was their quarry featured in the story..."

"...from our actions, yes. You catch on quick. A childhood spent at your grand-pappy's knee listening to all those stories have not managed to make you any dumber, I see."

Aelthas puffed up his chest with pride, even if the wife could not see him. "Grand-pappy always said I was the smartest tool in the shed."

Blaera rolled her eyes. Whenever Aelthas bragged about himself, he puffed his chest up like a crowing rooster. Honestly, men. " 'Sharpest', Aelthas. The 'sharpest' tool in the shed. Mayhap your edge has blunted with age after all." she teased.

"Bah! Hardly! I feel sharper than ever! Why, I could outrun a race-horse, out-wrestle a maddened ogre, out-think the most wizened o' sages!" Blaera stifled a giggle. "And you know why, wife?"

"And now he'll say it's due to me cooking. Why, husband?"

Aelthas smiled. "Our love makes me feel sixteen again. The hardships we suffered, the good times we've had... we faced 'em together, and together we got through, just like we've beaten the bandit ambush. Just like we can beat anything." Blaera was touched, even if a little. She felt a little tear escape the corner of her eye. She was just about to reply...

* * *

><p>"Aww, they make such a cute couple!" crooned Abigail, of all people.<p>

Everyone else shushed her.

* * *

><p>… when, for the second time that blasted day, they came under fire. Arrows whizzed past their heads and pinged off the steel shields defending Fearow's cot. She rushed into cover behind the shield-armored back of the wagon and looked to her weapon. "Now look what you've done, Aelthas! You and your blather of romance are getting us shot up!" hissed Blaera. "I take my eye off our back for <em>one drop of time<em>..."

Aelthas yelled back, "Now's not be the time to start firing back, dearest! Pot holes ahead!"

And sure enough, this bit of the road was full of more holes than a whole city of crazed gophers could've dug up.

* * *

><p>" 'Drop of time' ?" asked Chris.<p>

Wahya said "Made-up regional expression. Hey, nice timing with the ambush. I was getting tired of talking to myself, roll initiative again?"

"Nah, keep the old initiative, but count this as a surprise round for the bandits."

"Alright. Where did they come from?"

"Make an Awareness check." A die was rolled.

A separate screen on the holographic projector showed the number 11 on the die.

"Success."

* * *

><p>"<em>Bloody horse archers!?<em> They have bloody _horse archers_!" screamed Blaera whilst reloading her crossbow. "Aelthas! Why are they chasing us with bloody horse archers? What did you do? Knock over a merchant guild bank!?"

"How in the Nine Hells should I know?" roared Aelthas back.

"How the...how the Hells should _you_ know?! _You_ made the loans and put up the collateral, husband!"

"_Bugger that!_ _Never_ without your permission, Blaera! _Never_ without talking to ye first! GAH!"

"_Don't you yell at me, Aelthas Telstaerr!"_ she snapped. "This 'ere relationship of ours is based on a partnership, and a partnership _implies_... oh. Aelthas, you're injured." she finished in a dull tone. She'd seen the blood. And to think not a few seconds ago she'd been yelling at him. Over mere money.

Blood was flowing from her husband's right forearm. Aelthas spared a furtive glance at his injury. "Just a scratch, my dear." It _was_ just a scratch. "An itty-bitty flesh wound." It was _just_ a flesh wound, true, but bandits had done that. Bandits had harmed her husband, they'd endangered her _family's_ survival, her _baby's_ survival.

She whispered, "How dare they...?"

The arrow had just nicked her husband's forearm, embedding itself into the horse's neck-collar. The poor animal was spooked and hard to steer. All their fault. The bandits of the world – the ones that killed with weapons, spells, or money. The bankers, merchants, priests, wizards, lords. The brutes that took and took until you had nothing but your dignity and life, and then they took those too. No more. They would pay. They would die.

"You... rat-bastard sewer-lurker money-humping mother-buggers!" she roared.

Aelthas shone in the light of the forest. So strong, fighting the spooked horse tooth and nail. So calm after being injured. He kept his eyes on the road ahead while he talked. "Blaera, I'm sorry fer screaming at you like that. I need you, me sweet. Without ye, me an' wee Fearow both would be feeding the worms right now. Without you, we wouldn't have made it past the first ambush. You're my hero." An arrow whizzed close by, then another. Neither of them flinched. She, a hero? First time for everything, Blaera supposed. She wasn't feeling particularly heroic just now – just madder than a wild cat.

She gazed at his eyes, his beautiful, foolish eyes. "I'll kill them, husband." she vowed quietly. "For you and me and wee Fearow. For everyone that's ever lost a friend, a lover, or kin - to a slaver or bandit or money-bags. They're all the same. I'll kill them all."

She sat down behind the barricade of old shields and gazed at her crossbow. It had been the weapon of a bandit, sold by some adventurers to a drunk who couldn't even aim. Before that, it had served a stint in the hands of a slaver, and before that, had been a serial-killer's toy. She'd bought it off the drunk for home-brewed moonshine, some bread and onions.

The weapon possessed an undignified past and murderous masters, serving evil causes – now, sanctified in the defense of her family. It deserved a better history. She would give her one. The world was slowing down again. She could feel the smell of enemy blood, screaming for release from their master's undignified veins. She would give it that release. With fluid movements, she reloaded the weapon, poked up from cover. And started taking careful aim.

She compensated.

For the slight wind. The jerking movements of the wagon, the distracting noises of frantic flight.

She compensated.

For the intensifying bow fire coming her way.

For the mad cat-calls and jeering coming from the pursuers.

She compensated.

For her blood-lust, her justified, murderous feelings towards her tormentors.

For her immense, never-ending love for her family.

She compensated, then took the shot.

* * *

><p>"Well, she's pissed. Now we know that peasants can talk the talk. But, can they walk the walk?" said Chris in a quiet voice. "Personally, I think their little excursion will be cut short by horse archers."<p>

Wahya took her green d20, and with a confident toss, she threw it.

It bounced in the dice tray, rolled around, stopped.

Critical hit. Natural. Freaking. Twenty.

Wahya said triumphantly, "Personally, I think their little excursion will go on a bit longer."

* * *

><p>The crossbow quarrel darted forth, guided by a mother's rage. It sliced through the air. Then through cloth, and skin. It sliced through muscle, tasted blood, then remained embedded there. The external genitals that formed the sum total of this bandit's thinking power, had been torn asunder. He screamed – a prolonged, tortured yell – and collapsed from his saddle. In shock, in shame, streaming blood, wrecking his friends' morale.<p>

Chris sighed, and said, "Rolling Will saves for the horse archers – failed. They have a penalty of -1 attack and saves versus fear for 5 rounds. Sort of like the bard's song Inspire Courage, but in reverse."

Fedor grinned. "You could say he's... got _wood_."

"That was horrifying." squeaked Isabel.

"Epic cock-shot." blurted Alfie.

* * *

><p>Bandit projectiles thumped into the wagon's wooden sides again. Aelthas Telstaerr flinched as the four-wheeled wagon struck yet another blasted pothole. At the speed they were going, it was a miracle that they hadn't crashed. That would have been fatal to them – if lucky, instantly, if not, a lingering, slow death. That wretched pothole had saved his life, as another arrow whizzed past where his head had been moments ago.<p>

He strained his powerful arms on the reins and rode 'round a fallen tree trunk just in time. Then came a terrified neigh, a meaty crunch, a scream of surprise then horror and pain. The horse of an attacker had tripped and impaled its rider onto a fallen log's sharp branches. He shuddered so strongly, his dark mop of hair shook. Dear Ilmater, that was no way to go. "Well, 'tis a fine mess you got us into, husband. We could've stayed in Wizard's Reach and ride out the rumors of war. But do you ever listen to me? No ye don't. We just had to emigrate." said Blaera matter-of-factly, as if she hadn't just shot a man in the dangly bits.

He shouted, "Nice shot, dear! Going by the screamin', seems you got your _point_ across!", and finished with raucous laughter. Blaera was ducking beneath the wooden shields they'd fortified the covered wagon with. She began reloading the weapon and answered sweetly, "Yer silly jokes are not helping my aim. Don't ye have a wagon to steer?"

He laughed good-naturedly. "Ahhh, me beauty, yer a sharp shot with more than words! Just keep yon scoundrels away, and we'll live through this yet."

Blaera finished reloading in relative silence, then retorted, "I wouldn't have to work this winch except for militia practice days, if it weren't fer your passion for sea-travel, Aelthas."

His muscles straining from working the reins, he said, "Now that ain't fair. We couldn't stay somewhere where we owed gold to ruthless folk, and no livelihood to sustain us." She glanced up from reloading. "You're right. What we had there, in th' last miserable months, wasn't life at all. Keep driving and I'll keep shooting and we'll live through this. Hear me?"

Gods, he loved that woman. He answered warmly, "I hear you. We'll live through this."

Several projectiles swooshed through the space their heads had occupied a scant time ago. She threw herself back behind the improvised cover. Her man concentrated solely on driving them the hell out of there. She risked another peek, which was rewarded with arrows sticking into wood, inches from her face. Those horse-buggering bastards were annoyingly persistent.

* * *

><p>Wahya commented "Wow, that was close. I really, really don't wanna lose anyone this early in the game session."<p>

Chris replied "By 'not losing anyone this early' I assume your druid's going the orphan route? Raised by wolves or rabbits or something?"

She smiled. "To be honest, I'm feeling adventurous today. I know I'm a stickler for back-story but this time I'm rolling with the punches. If she ends up an orphan, fine. If her parents get away, she becomes a druid later. We'll see."

The DM was unperturbed. "That's the way it should be. The bandits are now readying actions to shoot Blaera Telstaerr as soon as she pokes her head out of cover. They got her sniping position pegged."

"Yikes. Time to up my game."

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong>

_Cover_ is generally a good thing. To determine whether your target has cover from your ranged attack, choose a corner of your square (on the game mat). If any line from this corner to any corner of the target's square passes through a square or border that blocks line of effect or provides cover, or through a square occupied by a creature, the target has cover (+4 to AC). There are various sub-rules dealing with cover which I won't be covering right now – such as cover and area of effect stuff, melee and cover, cover and large creatures, varying degrees of cover, cover and cannibalistic Zoroastrian clowns from planet Zebulon, etc.

_Readying actions_ – you can ready a standard action, a move action, or a free action. To do so, specify the action you will take and the conditions under which you will take it. Then, any time before your next action, you may take the readied action in response to that condition. The action occurs just before the action that triggers it. If the triggered action is part of another character's activities, you interrupt the other character. Assuming he is still capable of doing so, he continues his actions once you complete your readied actions. That's the gist of it.

Say, you ready an action to shoot an asshole wizard before he can blast you with magic. The wizard starts casting the spell, and you fire as a reaction. If you succeed and hit the wizard, he's forced to do a Concentration check to avoid losing their spell. If the wizard fails, you may proceed to dismember your enemy at your leisure. Or not, I won't judge.

* * *

><p>For the Telstaerr woman, time started to slow down again. 'Fight-time' the militia instructor had called it. Useful stuff. When she'd popped her head out of cover, she saw how several pursuers had held fire. They were waiting for her to make a mistake. Their mate's death-by-groin-shot had scared them. Time to give them further reasons to fear her. She'd only fired from the center of her cover so far, and that's where most of the bowmen were aiming.<p>

Big mistake.

* * *

><p>"I ready an action to shoot the lead horseman's mount from another spot. The idea being that the mount will either freak out or hit the ground, wounded or dead. Then the other guys crash into the lead guy. BAM. Multi-horse pileup."<p>

Chris smiled. "A brave little plan, and actually quite cool, assuming they fail their Ride checks catastrophically. Assuming you kill the lead's mount in one shot. Assuming I'd let you do this."

"Oh come on, DM, please, pretty please? With sugar, spice and everything nice?" Wahya was going all puppy-dog-eyes on him.

He sighed. "Eh, sure why not? It sounds cool, and I allow you guys to do cool stuff, within reason."

She readied her dice, excited. The DM said, "It'll take a critical hit _and_ rolling max damage to do it, at the very least." She nodded, rolled...

Chris face palmed.

She got her wish. Another twenty.

He was going to run out of face to apply palm to before this game session was over, he could tell.

* * *

><p>Everyone had her favored sniping spot covered. A storm of arrows would avenge their humiliation. All discipline, all caution, all orders had been thrown to the wind. Most of them had been military before this, mercenaries or regulars, serving various warlords from near or far. Men of skill and strength such as they, to be bested by some farm wench, was unthinkable.<p>

They had her.

The crossbow bitch popped up, like a fairground toy. Faster than a snake, faster than they had time to blink or panic, she fired. The lead horseman's mount was brought down by a bolt to the neck. Neighing, bleeding, twitching, the horse fell. Dumbstruck, the other bandits felt detached from the reality of having been bested... by a farm wench. They were now tangling with the fallen horse and being detached from their saddles.

Almost half their number bit the dust, literally. One mount did an impossible somersault and landed on two of their comrades' backs, killing them instantly, with a sick snapping sound. A few halted their horses roughly, in panic. Some of them had the presence of mind to get up and start shooting again. The lucky ones had stopped short of the mound of flesh that now barred their path.

The bitch had popped her pretty little head out of cover, alright. But their aim had been lacking. They were left staring in shock as the wagon pulled away. The last thing she'd done before getting back into cover, had been to jauntily wave goodbye to them. The leader, a mustachioed archer with dark skin named Korcer, got up and swore. Viciously. That whore and her husband had cost him his stallion and four men. Two crushed beneath a horses' arse, another young fool and his best grenadier.

Korcer yelled at his signaler to fire off a 'failure' signal arrow, which he did. It was time to use their contingency plan. A man like the Boss had the resources to arm his own private army with magical and alchemical weapons. And all to pursue and capture a family of farming schmucks. Clearly not one to be trifled with, and being impaled on sharp branches would be a sweet mercy, for the Boss would not be so lenient in his punishment. It wasn't cruelty, maybe not even insanity. It was simply... standard operating procedure.

* * *

><p>Fletcher Crufire, half-elven archer, hadn't always been a bandit. Once upon a time, he'd dreamed of becoming a protector of the woods, a defender of all travelers. Florin Falconhand had been his inspiration – skilled ranger, good soul and member of the legendary Knights of Myth Drannor. Fletcher's fall from grace, or 'Fletch' as his fellow bandits called him, was a typical story. Drunken abusive father, loving ranger mother that taught him the ways of the wild, and had the wisdom to get herself killed in a meaningless skirmish. He eventually fell in with a group of bandits after many sundry other misfortunes, and here he was.<p>

He supposed that his background of drama, desperation and particular skill set would had made him suited to the adventuring life-style. Then again, you didn't hear of a lot of former highwaymen turning their life around in such a manner.

Sitting in the cool shade and cover of the roadside trees, he noticed the red light of the signal arrow through the foliage, bursting high above his head. Korcer's horse archers had, seemingly, taffed up. They were now asking nicely if Fletch and his band of merry men would kindly rescue their bacon from the fire. He'd oblige, if only to see that pompous mustached idiot squirm as he thanked him. The Boss was keen on inter-gang cooperation.

Still, sod Korcer.

He told his log-crew to make ready. They had chopped down earlier some pine trees and stripped the foliage off. That left the logs, with now shorter, sharper branches, to serve as road blocks. His half-orcs had done a good job, all things considered. They weren't nearly as dumb as the other bandits had made them out to be. It was just like the Boss had said – delegating tasks is one of the keys to successful leadership.

* * *

><p>In spite of his injury, the bandit assault and the shock of seeing their neighbor dead, Aelthas had a good feeling about their situation. They'd succeeded. They'd escape. They'd even left the pot-holes behind. Oh, they wouldn't be free for a while yet; yon pursuers would fight tooth and nail to clap them in irons. Sod them. They would escape, even if only to spite them. Even if they sent all the hordes of the Hells down on their heads. Even if they blocked the road with... <em>logs<em>. Oh buggery.

Trying not to panic, he said to to his wife, "Dear, we've a problem ahead."

Blaera was elated. "Come now, man, you don't need me to hold your hand now, Aelthas? We've lost the horse archers, we are escaping, we'll survive the problem ahead surely."

"Look to the front."

Her face dropped. "Are those _bloody logs_ in the road?!"

"Yes, wife."

"Husband?"

"Yes, wife?"

"Remember when I said not to panic?"

"Sorry but no."

"Well, now's a good time to panic." He panicked.

"Alright wife, panicking."

"WATCH OUT!"

The world seemed to slow down, and then freeze altogether, as they stared helplessly at the approaching barrier.

* * *

><p>"Hold on a second, guys." He grabbed a stylus, browsed through the tablet's simulation menu-screen, and 'clicked' <strong>Pause Simulation<strong>.

Chris stared at the holo-screen intently. The logs his bandit dudes had laid as road blocks were about as long as the road was wide, doing the term 'road block' justice. When he'd fed his notes into the tablet's campaign and session organizer, he did not anticipate this. The unthinkable had happened – commoners, built to represent the average Joe Schmo peasant and unskilled laborer, the weakest class in the game – were kicking serious ass.

The wild and wacky nature of the game system itself, Dungeons&Dragons 3.5 edition, was to blame. It all but ensured that weird and wonderful statistical aberrations such as this scene would and could happen from time to time, (sometimes) to the delight of players and/or Dungeon Masters. Fact: they were having fun. Wahya especially was having a blast so far, drunk or no. Fact: The Telstaerrs were freaking action heroes, but they weren't getting past those logs, which blocked the road completely. They were too long. Hmm.

He then went to work hunting through his Session Notes folder.

Abigail asked, "Err, what are you doing?"

The dungeon master smiled. "First rule of D&D: Have Fun. The road blocks were too big to get past. So I'm making them shorter."

And with a few 'keystrokes' and 'clicks' of the stylus, he did just that.

Wahya smiled back. "Thanks, DM."

"Hey, don't mention it. Don't expect freebies from now on though."

"Don't worry, I won't. Preserve the challenge and all that."

He unpaused the simulation and they resumed the game.

* * *

><p>The world unfroze. Somehow, the logs ahead were shorter than they needed to be.<p>

It was their only chance.

Aelthas urged the draft horse on, and they thundered past the now-useless road block. Fletch and his blockade team stared for a moment... then rushed frantically to string arrows and load crossbow bolts. Too late. The few shots they got off went wild. The wagon got past the bend in the road, the trees mostly shielding them from view, and thundered away. Fletch whistled dejectedly. He'd taffed up as well, somehow. Boss was not gonna be happy. He drew a signal arrow, lit the fuse, then fired. A shower of blue sparks lit up the sky. You win some, you lose some, he thought.

A minute or two later, the frantically-galloping horse archers finally reached the failed road block, and halted. Well, time to face the music. Fletcher smiled and greeted his nemesis. "Korcer old friend, so glad to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Cut the bullcrap Fletch. The farmer wagon, where'd it go?" rumbled the massive bandit.

Always so direct... and rude. "My dear Korcer, you are an expert at draining the fun out of everything. They got clear of the blockade, they got away. My bad. By the way, nice horse. Is that a new one?"

"Cut the crap. There's a fork in the road up ahead, you damn well know that. The wagon, which way?"

"I wouldnae cut that crap with my own food-knife, to be sure. Maybe with yours..."

"The wagon, Fletch. Boss ain't happy. Where'd it go!?"

Fletcher smirked. "You could do with some manners. Firstly: is that a new horse? And secondly: say please."

"Mine was killed. By the crossbow bitch. I'll impale her and her whole family, see how they like that. Wagon, where?! P-please..."

The last word was spat out as reluctantly as one would spit out good mead. Fletcher savored it, then answered. "Now, now, you know the Boss wants'em _alive_ and _unspoilt_. All of them. They went left. My half-orc scouts have the best eyes I've ever..."

"At least they're good for heavy lifting and seeing. 'Cause they sure as shite can't build a road block!"

Korcer laughed heartily at his little joke, and was joined by his cronies.

Fletcher answered coolly "At least I lost no men to a bunch of dirt-grubbers. Guess there's a good reason why you took on these gents. No-one else could deal with their incompetence like you Kor. Like leader, like trooper."

Korcer stopped laughing abruptly.

From atop his new brown mare, he sputtered, "I'll get you, you taffer, for everything."

He fixed him with a murderous stare.

"Shouldn't you be going? Catching the marks and all that? " said Fletcher with a sarcastic smirk.

The mustached idiot rode away, taking his cronies with him.

The Boss was keen on inter-gang cooperation, and Fletcher Crufire had cooperated. Somewhat.

Still, sod Korcer.

* * *

><p>Selim was impressed. "Was that whole exchange improvised by the system? It was... seamless."<p>

The DM answered excitedly, "I know, right? Those two, being bandit officers, get more personality than regular mooks. I set the relationship between them as antagonistic / competitive, then all I had to do was place a cutscene trigger at that place. The AI in this tablet is _really_ something." Chris was delighted, this techno-toy had more going for it than he'd thought.

Alfie said, "Yeah well, I skip cinematics in games 'cause I wanna get to the ACSHUN! Now please let's get this over with quicker so I can get my turn already!"

Abigail answered, "Actually before you, there's Selim, myself and Charlie. You're third-to-last. Sorry."

"Fuck's sake."

* * *

><p>As Korcer and his posse set out baying for blood, the blond lad, most junior of all the bandits, swore and spurred on his mangy ornery horse.<p>

Arnall the teenage bandit often questioned the wisdom of his leaders' decisions.

Why chase peasants? What did they have that was worth all this trouble?

Who the taff knew? He didn't taffing care. Their wizard-boss was probably mad. They all were.

Madness came part-and-parcel with the magic and the pointy hat, even though the Boss didn't actually wear one.

The point man yelled something at Korcer. The big, mustached bandit had learned his lesson, since losing his prized stallion, and now lead from the middle of the formation. Korcer yelled something back at the point man, then screamed a few choice curses and a general command to follow the scout. The mass of mounted marauders picked up speed, stirring up a dust cloud. Apparently they were closing in on the fugitives. At last. Maybe then this stupid chase would end without him getting shot by the crossbow bitch.

With dust in his eyes, Arnall could scarcely see about him. He took at face value the scout's reassurance that they were closing in. Which they were, for it was five infernal minutes later, of riding through the heat and choking dust, that they made contact. A whizzing crossbow bolt, the gurgling death of the fifth horseman to perish that day – they'd caught up to the farmers' wagon. At least now there would be retribution. Korcer shouted orders to disperse and start herding the targets. He was answered by excited whoops.

The horse archer formation split with practiced ease into two groups.

Riding like madmen, pulling alongside the covered wagon, they began their savage war cries.

Drawing an assortment of scary weapons, the bandits closed in... and began to board.

First was an ugly bear of a man, armed with a hand axe. He sliced the rough cloth of the wagon cover, then threw himself off his horse awkwardly, screaming, through the hole... straight onto Blaera's waiting dagger. She didn't even have to do much, other than hold her arms stiff as the stupid taffer impaled himself, then cruelly twist the blade in the wound.

* * *

><p>"Ohohoooo, she hits, she scooooooores! Look at that guys, max damage!" Wahya was ecstatic.<p>

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the company. Maybe it was the game. Maybe all three.

"What is this I don't even..." Chris was amazed.

At this rate there would be nothing left of the bandit ambush.

Rambo the peasant-woman might actually level up.

"Hey, I'm the Meme-Man, not you!" protested Selim in jest.

* * *

><p>A team of two riders came up to the front of the wagon. They were big red-headed lads with bastard swords. They drew their blades cackling aloud, intending to double-team a very busy Aelthas. He noticed the attackers and a cold sweat poured down his back. Quarterstaff against two swordsmen attacking from opposite sides – even with his skill at staff-fighting, a dicey prospect. But two attackers might also risk injuring one another, especially with blades as unwieldy as those.<p>

A plan was quickly hatched, raised to maturity and kicked protesting from his head with great speed. He tied the reins onto a peg, to keep the horse's heading steady, and retrieved his staff. The big bastards by now had boarded unsteadily. They began their attack as one, hoping to cut him down in one blow. Two sideways slices were barely avoided in time. Aelthas struck back – two vicious jabs to each belly in turn.

The red-heads switched tactics – one feinting an attack whilst the other would try to stab or slice Aelthas. They took turns doing so for a short while. The massive potter ducked, parried and tried his best to counter them. He struck them over the shoulders, shins and sometimes cheeks. They were not letting up. He spared a glance at Blaera. She was busy heaving a large corpse out of the wagon. Good for her.

Now time to end this, lest they became corpses as well. The red-heads were gearing up for a savage coordinated slice to the neck. He ducked down in the nick of time – and the dumb whoresons were not so lucky. They killed each other with their synchronized attack – jugulars split open, spraying blood, dumb expressions on their faces. They fell off the wagon, twitching, like the sacks of shit they were. The plan to make them kill each other had worked (if barely), noted Aelthas with satisfaction.

* * *

><p>"Ahahahahah fuck you, assholes." laughed Alfie.<p>

"Jesus, it's like you're the drunk one, not Wahya." grumbled Chris.

" 'Ooohhh, peasants are the lamest class. They'll NEVER survive. They can get taken out by house cats stat-wise.' EAT THEM WORDS, DM!" added Wahya, in jubilation.

"I stand corrected – you're _both_ drunk."

* * *

><p>Korcer gritted his teeth when he saw the red-headed brothers die. Losses were embarrassingly high for what was supposed to be a quick and easy snatch-and-grab. Multiple ambush points, road blocks, horse archers – all had failed. The last surprise though, the last asset – that was a doozy. That was a sure thing. He grinned, like the savage beast that he was. All they had to do was keep them busy a while longer, keep them focused on the fight. He roared for more fodder to board the wagon. Time bought with lives.<p>

Blaera wrenched off a wooden shield and tested its balance. Solid oak, iron rim. Good. She retrieved her previous victim's hand axe and twirled it around. Good balance, sharp edge. She'd wanted to grow up to be an adventurer or soldier, when she was just eleven, like her favorite adventure story heroine, the Crimson-Axe Maiden.

The Maiden had grown up with the Uthgardt tribes of the Frozen North, had traveled with whalers and explorers over the Great Frozen Sea, and had carved a bloody path through monsters and slavers up and down the Sword Coast. She'd even looted an ancient ruined city in the Anauroch Desert, and had become blood-sister to a chieftain there, rescuing him from a losing battle. The idea that being a woman didn't mean giving up a military or adventuring career was heartening. She may have not been able to follow her dream in the Wizard's Reach, but she might in the Dalelands.

At least her silly dream would mean that her family would live. Even if she had to kill every last foe between them and their future home. More of the taffers were boarding. Through the back, or holes in the wagon's covers, they came. Five young bastards, all ugly, save one. They carried short swords and spears. If they would capture her alive...

Arnall had boarded the wagon with four of the new guys. He let the eager four go through first. He'd seen how the woman had gutted old Gorrin and shot two others. The other four didn't seem to care. As they drew their weapons, they started leering at the woman and making suggestive comments. Arnall hated it, but he was a bandit now. Not much he could do about it.

Then they threw themselves forward, howling like mad dogs.

* * *

><p>"Rolling to attack. Totals of 6, 9, 12 and... oh! 15, does that hit?"<p>

"Damn it, yes it does. Well, congratulations. How does it feel to kill an awesome NPC?" Wahya seemed a bit upset.

Chris felt a little bad. "Well chill out, I haven't rolled for damage yet. She might make it after all."

He rolled, and Blaera survived. "3 damage. Try to not get her killed now."

* * *

><p>Blaera acted like living lightning. She blocked one sword with her axe, parried a spear thrust with the shield, kicked at another attacker, causing him to stumble... and took the second spear in her right shoulder. She felt the tip pass through her simple woolen dress, then flesh. The warrior-woman sucked air in her chest greedily, to dispel the haze of pain. Luckily, the stab had been shallow. The attackers flinched back, surprised at their success, at her speed...<p>

* * *

><p>"Wait, are they moving back? Out of Rambo-Mom's threatened squares? That's an attack of opportunity right there!"<p>

"Yeah they are. Cowardly bunch, aren't they?" commented Chris.

Wahya didn't listen. She scooped up her green d20 and rolled fiercely. The attack hit, the damage roll was good.

Payback time.

* * *

><p>The axe lodged itself in a bandit's neck, a lanky lad with acne-covered cheeks. The gurgling scream and blood spray had intimidated the rest. She dislodged the axe from the corpse with a sickening slurping sound, and made a comment about their lack of courage and amorous experience. "Delay her, you whoresons! Or else!" Korcer roared. The shire horse was putting distance between them. It was another section of road with pot-holes. The young fools would be the only bandits to engage for a while. It would have to be enough. They feared the warrior-woman, but they feared their leaders even more.<p>

Unnerved, the young fodder switched tactics – they began to harass Blaera by clumsily feinting attacks, stalling for time, just like their chieftain had ordered. Time for what, they didn't know. They wouldn't have liked it if they'd known, anyway. Blaera parried and dodged, keeping her eyes peeled for tricks or an opening. The loud noises of the ongoing chase had eventually roused little Fearow from her sleep. She'd started crying - a prolonged, warbling wail. This, naturally, had only made Blaera angrier.

Aelthas had caught a few snippets of the fight in the back of the wagon and his daughter's crying. He dearly wanted to help. The enemy had other ideas though. Two horse archers, grim-faced men with composite bows, were riding hard, to get alongside his seat. He'd be shot to bits if they got close enough.

"Umm dearest? I need some crossbow fire to the sides!"

Blaera parried a spear, then tried to kick a bandit in the shin. "Mildly busy over here, husband."

"You'll be a widow shortly, then. These gents are fixing to fill me with arrows."

"Where are they?"

"Coming up from behind, real fast."

She spared a glance to confirm. "I see them."

She had to swiftly kill or disable the bastards she was tangled with, and aid Aelthas immediately.

Or else they'd lose the fight, and likely their lives.

* * *

><p>Arnall had held his ground, to the back of the boarding party. The wagon was on the small side, few men could board or fight at the same time. He focused on the fight, ready to step in, and fill any gap that might form in the battle line. Blood spray hit his face. Morens was first to die. That demented berserker woman had split the poor taffer's neck open. She was grinning and commenting on their unused manhoods and lack of martial skill.<p>

"Delay her, you whoresons! Or else!" Korcer wanted results, and rather urgently. They started feinting attacks in order to keep the warrior-woman's attention focused on them. Suddenly, he heard a keening, prolonged warbling sound – a wail that seemed to contain the full sorrow and confusion of a dying world. Namely, the crying of an indisposed toddler. It hit Arnall like a hammer blow. There was a child aboard!

The horrid warbling crying came from what seemed a miniature fortress – armored in steel shields. A light mail shirt draped above the cot made the thing damn near impervious to arrow fire. Doubtlessly the kid was in there. The expense, the paranoia, the sheer insane lengths the thirty-something-old couple had gone to, in order to escape the bandits – despite their previous military experience, ambush, superior weapons and horse archers.

No risk was too dangerous, no sacrifice too great – for parents protecting their offspring.

Just like his parents had done, years ago.

His parents...

* * *

><p>Arnall had always enjoyed riding and archery, ever since his pa took him hunting for the first time. Their life had been good back then, living in their little cottage in the woods, ever since his parents had migrated there. The land was kind, providing game to eat and furs to sell. Life <em>had<em> been good. Past tense. Then a local warlord took control of the land. Invoked "colonization rights". It was "first come, first serve" in the Moonsea lands.

The warlord's men had decided to collect 'land ownership taxes' from his family's little cottage. Korcer had been in charge. His pa had fought back and been stabbed real bad. His ma fought back like a wild cat and she'd been dog-piled by the burly laughing soldiers. They tried taking advantage of her, but she'd cut her own throat rather than suffer that shame. His pa rose from where he'd been bleeding all this time. With an almighty roar, he slew two of the lord's men with a woodcutting axe before being turned into a pincushion of arrows.

The then-fourteen Arnall had thrown himself on the back of his father's still-saddled bay mare and rode like the wind. The soldiers gave chase, and eventually cornered him. He was about to be slain as well before he started begging, begging, begging for his life. The laughing soldiers decided to spare the young coward, and took him in as their 'servant'. A year of gutting fish or fowl, cleaning, caring for the mounts and digging latrines had turned him from a joyous, if-a-little-cowardly youth, into a bitter young man, aged before his time.

And into a proper coward too, always willing to overlook injustice or look the other way, as long as he avoided another beating. The lord his captors served was eventually attacked and slain by one of his rivals, his lands taken by the victor. His tormentors, with him in tow, wisely deserted beforehand. Thus they avoided the fate of their former comrades, taken prisoner and used a bait for shark fishing. Such was life around the Moonsea.

They drifted for awhile, plundering here and killing there, until they fell in with other gangs, forming one large band.

And then he had been set, ready to become what he had hated all these years. A wandering brute, slaying, raping and taking what he willed from those too weak to protect themselves. The natural laws of strong fang and claw rending the flesh of prey, and the dominion of human greed and cruelty – two disturbing parallels between animal-beast and man-beast.

Not him. This would not be him.

He would not turn from victim, into tormentor.

He'd not make another child an orphan.

He'd not take the lives of folk that never done no harm to him.

This had to stop. And he'd try to stop it.

* * *

><p>"Stay your hands. She's fighting for her <em>babe<em>, can't you see? You're trying to slay a _mother_!" The fighting had ceased, for the moment, combatants regarding each other warily. "Hold on lads. Dismount and disengage." The warrior-woman and his young comrades stared at Arnall slack-jawed, as if he'd fallen from the moon. Was he serious? Offering a truce, after all that happened? Arnall knew this was going to be a hard sell. But he'd promised to himself that, at least this one time... the cycle of victims creating other victims, because their mental anguish hadn't been healed, would cease. At least this one time. You only had one life, or so he thought.

"Come on lads, be reasonable. They haven't anything of value. They've the shirts on their backs, the tools of their trade. And their babe of course," he gestured to the fortress-cot, wailing still going strong. "They'd give anything, including their lives, all to keep their child safe. And they'll take ours eagerly, too, to do the same."

* * *

><p>"What... is he doing? Is he suddenly turning traitor?" Wahya was intrigued. "Why?"<p>

Chris frowned. He paused the game and checked his notes. "Apparently, the game _randomly_ decided that this one should be Chaotic Neutral at first. But now I see his alignment bar slowly creeping towards... Chaotic Good. What the hell, game?" He blinked in confusion.

Everyone leaned forward in their inter-war wooden chairs. The living room, furnished in old but presentable inter-war style furniture, had come alive. This twist had made everything a bit more interesting. Everyone wanted to add something to the discussion, all at once.

"Alright alright! You each get your turn. Inverse order in which you arrived. Oliver," said Chris, pointing at the wraith-like South African, "you first."

"Did you program this in, Chris?"

"No, although I wish I had. It's a nice twist. Wahya!"

The crystal-bedecked girl rose to speak. "I have NO idea what's going on anymore. But it's a pretty interesting twist. Maybe it's some randomization script. Could be a feature to grant a given game session a further element of randomness and additional plot hooks. Look through the game options. I dunno." She shrugged and sat down.

"Interesting suggestion. Selim?"

The Saudi teen said, "I have no idea. What I love, though, is to see this fictional character turn from a road of darkness, back onto the righteous path. Good for you, digital man."

"Nice philosophy. Charlie?"

"Same shit, different story. Only instead of Islam, I speak for the Path of Buddha. But I'm afraid this lil' dude's gonna suffer for his goodness. You don't turn on yo homies, on yo gang and expect to walk away. Even if they are bad."

Abigail interjected, "Hey, you forgot me."

"Sorry. Opinion, Abby?"

"I really admire what he's doing, and I hope he makes it. Even though I've no clue why this is happening of its own accord."

"Okay then. Alfie!"

"Yeah?"

"Your opinion on this, please."

"Well alright. My opinion is - he's boned. A goner, dead-man-walking."

Chris was curious. "OK, why?"

Alfie snorted in derision. "Does the poor SOB really think his bosses are just gonna... let him walk away? And spoil their little plan? Even if it's a pretty fucking dumb plan, if you ask me. Chasing peasants... feh. He ain't gonna make it."

"Thank you for your immense optimism."

Alfie gave him a thumbs up with a bored expression.

Chris said, "Let's make this snappy. We got a scene to finish. Fedor. Opinion plox."

"At last, Fedor gets _something_!" He leaned his massive bulk forward. His chair creaked alarmingly. "OK, OK, here's how it is. He vill _not_ escape alive. Ze laws of dramatic tension _demand_ that he sacrifice his own life to help ze family escape. It's gonna happen, you just vatch."

"Very likely. Isabel?"

The gorgeous Phillipino was not tremendously interested in this philosophical discussion. She removed her headphones. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

Chris sighed. "One of the bandits turned friendly. He's blabbering to his mates to withdraw and leave the family alone. What are your thoughts on the situation?"

"Oh, it could be a computer glitch. Maybe the system accessed some dialogue file it was meant to play later, or... something of the sort. It's not impossible in a brand new product. Why, didn't you program this in?"

"No, and thanks. Why did you have your headphones on right now?"

"Err... I'm sorry. I didn't realize you hadn't paused for a break. When you paused game, I thought it was break-time " She stretched her arms above her head, giving Chris an unwanted, or perhaps calculated, view of her substantial cleavage. Chris was understandably distracted by the sexy.

"I'm sorry about that, dear." she purred. "It can be... rather unhealthy, to spend so much time just... sitting down, not doing much of anything."

Chris was still distracted by the sexy. He hemmed and hawed, and tried to collect his thoughts. "Y-yes yes. We'll be ummm, we'll be taking a break soon enough. After Wahya is done, that is."

"Well, thank ye very muchly for your incredible generosity there, DM." said Wahya snarkily.

Oliver frowned. "But we _are_ doing something. Playing an adventure/combat game and socializing."

"Seems more like a queue simulator to me, so far." grumbled Fedor. He was right, to an extent.

* * *

><p>Reality resumed. Shaking wagon, forest, sunshine, dusty air, a warrior-woman and three fellow bandits staring at him. Shaken by his switch of allegiance. It's as if the world had been frozen – Fate and the gods taking a break from managing things. Maybe they'd taken a sip of wine, stretched their legs, before returning to their thrones. Like players taking a break from a board-game – mused Arnall bitterly. Probably some mad wizard playing with the structure of the Universe – again. It wouldn't be the first time and it would not be the last. But that was out of his hands. What he could influence, was the fate of his fellow bandits, his own, and that of the family.<p>

"Well," he asked, "what say you?"

"Are you mad!? You wish to die? Is that it?" roared Aeron.

Aeron was a stocky Heartlander with furious blue eyes, the most aggressive of the new recruits. "Think you Korcer will be _kind_? Think you the Boss would _care_? _Think you they're blind or stupid!?_"

"Think I, maybe you shut the taff up for a moment. Listen to what I have to say."

Aeron harrumphed. "Say your piece, then die like the traitor ye are."

Arnall breathed deeply. This was going to be a bitter pill to swallow. "Korcer is spending our lives to stall for time, keep all of us busy whilst we hurdle headlong into our graves."

"Load of shite I says." Aeron wiped the sweat from his eyes.

'Twas a hot day. He could barely see anything of the trees for the dust.

"All _you_ say _is_ shite, Aeron. But listen here: there be a large hole dug a hundred feet or more ahead. Festooned with spikes, meant to kill this 'ere horse and keep the family from escaping. We're being sacrificed so's they can capture the family."

"Why the hell do they want with these folk? And where're you getting this information from?'

"I keeps me ears open. Caught a snippet of conversation between our 'esteemed' chiefs. The mage... he wants the child."

Blaera's eyes went wide. "Little Fearow...? Why? Why her? What's he want with a babe barely a year old?" She may have been shocked by this new development, but she was keeping her armaments close, and her stance loose but ready. She weren't no stranger to warfare and killing, noted Arnall.

He shrugged. His mind was tired - recalling his family's murder, his act of sheer will to turn from banditry to regain a shred of dignity, his effort to persuade his comrades - no, his _former_ comrades – to cease their attack. To withdraw, flee, save their lives and future. "I don't know, ma'am. Maybe to raise as an apprentice. Maybe something worse. You can never tell with mages. Mad, the lot of 'em."

Blaera could only agree. Her previous look of mistrust had been replaced with... something.

He could not tell. But hers was no longer the gaze of an enemy.

* * *

><p>"Blaera! Them horse archers really want to unload their quivers in me!" Aelthas winced. Poor wording. Could lead to a joke about buggery. Blaera would have normally pounced on such an opportunity, mercilessly mocking him. But not this time. He spared a glance back. They were not fighting. What the Hells? They were... talking instead. Was she captured? Nay, she still bore arms. She still had a child to defend. She still drew breath. His wife would have never surrendered, not even to a God.<p>

Was she spell-bound? Did the bandits have a spell caster among them!?

"BLAERA! TAFF'S SAKE, ANSWER!"

She snapped out of her 'trance', irritated. "What?"

"What the blazes is wrong back there?"

"Seems like one of our esteemed boarders wishes to defect. Swear to us allegiance, husband."

"Are you mad? Could be a trick!"

"Since when has anyone ever lied to me, and gotten away with it, Aelthas?"

He nodded to himself. It was true. "Make him swear by the merciful Gods."

Blaera saw the wisdom in those words.

The Gods where ever watchful, and fairly swift to punish broken oaths, 'specially if they were sworn by their names.

She enveloped the bandits, especially Arnall, with her steady gaze.

Blaera said, with an even voice, "Swear to me. Swear by Ilmater and Helm, by Tyr and Tymora, that you mean us no harm, not now, not ever. Swear that you'll aid in our escape with all your strength and skill. And in turn I swear that I'll do everything I reasonably can to aid in yours."

Arnall answered, choked with emotion. "I swear, by Ilmater and Helm, by Tyr and Tymora. I mean you no harm, not now, not ever. I'll aid in your escape with all my strength and skill. And in turn I do accept your aid for mine own escape."

* * *

><p>Chris had never talked quite so much in-character, since the young NPC bandit had, somehow, decided to defect to the parents of Wahya's character. It had been fun for awhile, he playing the part of the bandit, and Wahya the part of Blaera, Warrior-Mum. But they had to get back to the action, Wahya's turn had gone on long enough. The others were getting a little restless.<p>

"Roll Sense Motive."

"Aww, still haven't merged the diplomacy skills together?"

"Not yet, and I'm not tempted to. Roll dem bones."

Rattle, rattle, rattle. Clickclackclackclack in the dice tray. 19 on the green d20, result duplicated on the holographic projector. Chris applied palm to face. "Success. Arnall is not lying. I swear, your luck is _hot_ tonight. You guys haven't rolled a one yet, and already several twenties."

"Yeah well, the Force is with me."

* * *

><p>They locked gazes. Blaera smiled. It was the first time Arnall had seen her content.<p>

He liked her smile. He looked forward to seeing her smile again, and more often. But before that, they had to survive this. They heard Korcer's bullish voice again, yelling his head off, goading them to fight. For his own gain of course, and that of his master, the mage in purple.

Aeron had waited long enough. "If you're with them, then you're against us. And you'll die for this. Real slow."

He grinned. His cronies mimicked him. They readied their weapons.

Arnall smirked at the stupidity of the statement. Blaera shared his humor.

The bandits pounced at once. Two on Blaera, and Aeron thrust his spear at Arnall with fury.

A battle for survival had been joined. The world turned, the Fates spun their golden thread.

The future revolved around a young child... and the mage in purple.

* * *

><p>"Phallic joke alert, phallic joke alert! You have been warned! Heheh, 'thrust his spear'. It's like that Viking porn I read sometimes." joked Alfie.<p>

Nobody payed her any attention.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong> – 255 words. **RULES** – 410 words. **NARRATOR THINGY** – 102 words. **ACTUAL STORYTIME** – ~ 12,117 words.

•_•) ( •_•)⌐■-■ (⌐■_■)


	8. Interlude - Heartache and Intrusion

**A.N.:** Something, something... DARK SIDE! After Chapter 10 will go up, I'll spend some time looking over everything I've done, and doing a little more editing and improvements where needed/possible.

I'm so sorry for not updating for so long. My own sense of inadequacy, plus life's many troubles drowned out the pure joy I find in writing and creating in general. I have been poking away at this chapter for quite some time, in the rare moments when I found my inspiring muse, drunk at the bottom of some vile bottle of troubles and what-might-have-beens. Forgive me, all. Though not a day has passed when I haven't thought about this story. Not a day when I haven't pictured the characters hanging out, relaxing, having their little crises, good times and bad times, and fighting tooth and nail for what matters to them.

The story's been alive in me all this time, still. I'm done with my exams for now. I still have the entrance exams for college. Let's hope I prove good enough to get in. There's bound to be a lot of competition. [**weak smile**]

I leave you with this, what my brain has managed to crap out in all this time. Enjoy it, for what it's worth. As always, Please Examine And Critique Honestly (PEACH).

**7th December 2014: Minor editing done. Enjoy.**

Previously... on the Gospel of Chris:

_Boring, depressing stuff in the writer's life kept him away from writing, his characters suspended in a near-lifeless limbo of agony and anticipation. The chase continues, the Telstaerr family's fate still undecided. A small ray of sunshine smiles upon them – a young bandit betraying his former comrades and captors, making a bid for freedom along the fleeing family. A story of steel and sorrow still in the making, as the enemy starts to reveal their hand..._

* * *

><p><strong>1353 Dale Reckoning – Forest of Cormanthor<strong>

The old druid opened his slanted eyes. He rose from where he'd been sitting cross-legged in the meadow. He'd felt the pain of the felled trees from many miles away. The man shook his mane of iron-gray hair in disapproval, then looked up at the treant. The treants were an ancient race, noble and wise guardians of the land, which looked like mobile trees, with influence over the nature around them, gifted with great power to protect and destroy.

This one was a mighty pine, walking on gnarled root-legs, with eyes that looked like a tree-trunk's growth rings. This section of the woods near the river Ashaba was in _his_ care. Those impudent bandits had _dared_ to cut down healthy trees for their puny barricades. The treant loomed in the cool shade at the edge of the meadow, silent and upset.

The druid spoke, "Muunthar, you're certain all they're concerned with is capturing this family fleeing in a wagon?"

The treant's voice rumbled in reply. "Yes, Sage of Creepers. The trees and flowers, the wind, the animals tell me so. Few things escape the forest's vigilance."

"I see. Did you glimpse who leads them?"

"I did. A little songbird told me it was an old human man, clad in distinct purple robes. I sensed great power within him."

The old druid froze. Could it be...? He quickly reached out with his mind to a sparrow in a tree nearby. Silently, he asked the sparrow to lend him its sight and wings for a short time. It assented. The bird took to the air. A short while later, he released the bird with his thanks. He had his information. The druid sported a feral grin now.

The treant sighed, inasmuch an intelligent mobile tree _can_ sigh.

"Is it that wizard you're so obsessed with, my sage?"

"Yes... oh yes, it is. The same wretch that I've been hounding all this time. The same purple-wearing peacock that's been a pain in my hide for these last few decades."

"One would think males of your age and wisdom could engage in more fruitful, practical pursuits than petty vendettas. And over a minor insult, as well," chided the treant gently.

The druid replied, flippantly, "Yes, well... we mighty spellcasters need our little hobbies in our old age. Otherwise, we might find we have too much time on our hands. That's how magical empires and world-shaking plots happen, don't you know. And, he called me a smelly sewer monkey once!"

"Oh yes, heavens forbid that spellcasters start behaving responsibly and solve the world's problems, and get over childish rivalries and insults."

The druid replied, "In that case, we'd have a lot of unemployed heroes and Chosen Ones that might just turn villainous because they're _bored_. Without the opportunity for adventure, they would create their own, and we'd be back at square one."

The treant grumbled. He could never win such arguments against his friend. "Yes, but... what of these intruders of ours?"

"They've desecrated the forest with these tree-murders. I will go _deal_ with these... creatures... that refuse to live in harmony with nature. And the purple bastard as well."

The old druid's gravelly voice crackled with delight, relishing the coming bloodshed.

"If it pleases you Sage, spare the family. They are only passing through. They mean no harm."

The Sage frowned. "And yet, they ride in a wagon made of wood ripped from the remains of trees. They wield tools of metal. They make use of the children of the wilds and the bones of the land, with no thanks for the land's gifts."

The druid stared unblinking at the massive talking plant. The wise and venerable Sage of Creepers had thrown down the gauntlet. Muunthar liked to debate on the merits and lack thereof of the so-called "civilized" races. But at the moment there were intruders in the wood to remove, gently or not.

The treant answered with a question. "Will thou spare yon fleeing family?"

"Dipping into Ye Olde Common already, I see. _If_ I get there in time, I will help." the druid conceded. "My main concern, however, is slaughtering the tree-defilers." He straightened his back, his camouflaged leather armor creaking. "If the family gets out of my magic's area of effect... well then, they should consider themselves rescued. And be off in their _abominable_ contraption."

"Then I shall accompany you on task, as the appointed defender of this patch of the Cormanthor. In an observational capacity, of course." said the treant.

"Of course."

"Always so cheerful when about to kill defilers of nature, my Sage?"

"Always, my good treant. I'll have need of a good arrival tree..."

"_Transport via plants_? Such a dull spell name... There is an ancient fir tree not far from the road, the spitting image of this one beside us."

"Very well then."

"Treants _can_ use this spell at will, you know." added Muunthar innocently.

"As you always see fit to remind me..."

"It's not all bad, being a mobile sentient plant. But the wood lice get to me on some days..."

"I believe it's called 'old age'." joked the druid. They laughed good-naturedly. "What say you two fearsome old warriors go and chase themselves down a group of bandits, hmm?"

Muunthar merrily approved. "Just like the good old days, if I may be so bold."

"When I was a young lad full of piss and vinegar, and your moss beard not quite as long."

"My dear Sage, my beard was always this long, at least on the inside."

They laughed together. Wreathed in green energies, they cast their transport spells. They were off, to witness the drama unfolding on the forest's dirt road.

* * *

><p><strong>15 minutes earlier – Forest of Cormanthor, the Ordulin-Highmoon Road <strong>

Steel glinted and flashed, blood flowed freely.

Aeron's blue eyes gleamed with fury. "You treasonous fool, Arnall! We could have survived this! If you'd obeyed orders!"

Arnall dodged a spear thrust. He quickly caught the overextended weapon underneath his left armpit. A quick knee to Aeron's groin left him stunned. He roared a reply, "We were always expendable! Wizards don't leave loose ends!" Aeron groaned, then grabbed hold of Arnall's shirt. This took both by surprise. Aeron recovered first. He smashed his forehead into his foe's nose. Arnall was knocked down, bloodied and dazed. The bandit was not concerned with the warrior bitch interfering. His two men were keeping her occupied. He drew a dagger to finish his enemy off. Aeron could not resist gloating. "The wizard 'll let me live for a job well done!"

Arnall saw the dagger in his foeman's hand. His entire universe focused on the shiny blade. It descended towards his neck ever so slowly. Adrenalin made time itself flow like a thick syrupy liquid. Aeron's taunt was the final straw. _Didn't the stupid taffer realize that he's expendable?_ The dagger came ever so closer. _That we all are? I have an oath to keep, a live to redeem._ The dagger was in range of his hands now. He could not let the warrior-woman down. Like claws stronger than death, his hands closed firmly on the killer's wrist.

A knee planted in Aeron's left kidney turned the tide. Aeron was slammed into the wagon's wooden side. Face smothered against the canvas cover, he was pinned. Rage began to ebb, replaced by primal fear. He began screaming and struggling, a brawling match for his life. Then the bandit felt the kiss of death – colder-than-cold steel in his liver. Then his left lung, then his back, his neck, his... his... his...

Blood bubbled and frothed from wounds as Arnall stabbed with a rhythmic animal scream.

He stabbed on even when Aeron was dead, until his corpse rolled out of the wagon.

Through his haze, he heard the woman's grunt of pain. Blaera had been hit.

* * *

><p>The game was paused by Wahya. "Oh gosh darn it, not again! C'mon man, you keep hitting my character's parents like they've done you personal harm." she protested.<p>

Chris sighed, passing a hand over his short platinum-blond hair. "It's my job as Dungeon Master to run the opposition and present the obstacles and challenges to the players. Without obstacles and foes, there is no excitement. Your complaining is ridiculous. I mean, not even Saturday morning cartoon heroes escape without a scratch."

Wahya just shook her head. "Actually, Saturday morning cartoons in US television are surprisingly predictable. Villains plot, heroes and villains fight, heroes win, roll credits. A dilemma is faced, someone makes a mistake, learns their lesson, roll credits. Next episode, they're the same, they haven't changed or learned anything. Status Quo Is God. The point is, I'd like a challenge. But, you know, not something insurmountable for their capabilities."

Alfie leaned back in her inter-war era chair, staring at the ceiling. "Y'know, Dungeon Dude, Chris... this has been dragging on for a fucking. Long. While. No offense to Miss Wahya Mysticism here..."

"Hey, watch it with the pet names!"

"So noted. This is a long-ass character segment. Like, I'm among the last in line. I'm here for the puns, socializing, and war-gaming. And snacks. I'm here for _fun_. If I wanted _boring_, I'd go watch paint dry."

Fedor glared, then growled, "Pfft. You can all take dis queue und shove it up your..."

* * *

><p><strong>Player attention span decreasing. <strong>

**Frustration and boredom responses detected in all test subjects.**

**Data collection hampered by cessation of game-play.**

**Requesting authorization for use of PROCEDURE GOTHIC – ALEPH – 12 for coercion purposes.**

_**Request denied. Use of PROCEDURE GOTHIC – ALEPH – 12 may compromise viability of data and test subjects alike. Recommend you employ alternate course of action.**_

**Understood. Requesting authorization for limited scenario alteration and temporary interface control as alternate solution.**

_**Specify required parameters.**_

The shiny black tablet sent its response. The reply arrived soon after.

_**Authorization granted within specified parameters, to be rescinded upon completion of task.**_

While everyone else was arguing, the game very quietly operated a few changes... and un-paused itself.

* * *

><p>Aelthas heard the grunt of pain. "Blaera! Are ye injured?"<p>

He couldn't lose her, not now...

Arrows went buzzing past his head.

Then, through the dust and the haze of fear, he saw them.

Two grim men riding ashen mounts, stringing powerful yew shortbows, on either side of him.

They took aim once more.

* * *

><p>Chris grumbled, "Hey, who un-paused this thing? We weren't done talking, you know."<p>

Fedor replied gruffly, "Hey man, it vasn't me. Maybe it's broken or bugged or some shit."

Alfie interrupted them both. "Hold on, look. The wagon-family ain't giving up. This is pretty cool..."

The dungeon master stared as the dice roller rolled attacks by itself. "I'm _not_ rolling for _anyone_ to attack, so how in the hell...?"

"Told you it vas bugged."

* * *

><p>"Back off, you...!" A spear thrown by Arnall flew towards one of the horse archers. It missed him by inches. They had backed off, for now. Aelthas risked a backwards glance. The bandits who'd boarded were now on the back-foot, desperately dodging attacks from both Arnall and Blaera. Arnall reversed his grip on the bloodied dagger. He dodged a clumsy spear thrust, and stabbed his opponent in the neck. The last bandit was unnerved by his comrade's death. Blaera cut him down with a savage axe blow to the head. Gore sprayed her face and shield.<p>

"Job's done! Still alive, are we?"

"Are ye injured, wife?"

"Just a scratch."

Aelthas roared back, "Horse archers are back! Some supporting fire, Blaera?"

"Me pleasure." She rushed for her crossbow. "Lad, try and find another spear. Aim true, we don't have many."

They both threw themselves behind cover.

"Arnall, ma'am. Name's Arnall."

Blaera nodded, then started reloading her weapon. The former bandit retrieved a short spear.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why... what, ma'am?"

"Why did ye help us?"

Arnall smiled sadly. "I lost me family and future to bandits. Can't let this happen again, to some other child. Now now, not ever."

She nodded. "Gods grant you forgiveness then. You might save our collective arses in the end."

"That's what I aim to do."

She grinned. "A true blue paladin, ain'tcha?"

He shrugged. "Just trying to unload me conscience is all."

"Don't we all."

* * *

><p>Selim was curious. "How did this thing un-pause by itself? Why did the game un-pause?"<p>

Wahya shrugged, helplessly. "It's an experimental device, could be a malfunctioning script, hardware issues. Any number of things, from faulty circuits to the planets aligning. How should I know?" She winced in pain. "Ow, my aching head."

Abigail said triumphantly, "And _that's_ why you have no business rummaging through my snacks. That was MY liquor-laden candy, after all."

* * *

><p>The horse archers were back, in greater numbers. The first two were joined by two agile blond lads, grinning maniacally, riding fast coursers. They were looking through the dust cloud for a clear shot, on either peasant. The two grim bandits were lining up again for a shot on Aelthas. A green flash erupted above, lighting up for a brief second Aelthas' whole field of view. A message of some kind. The bandits saw it as well. They were emboldened by it. They rode even harder, striving for the kill shot.<p>

Kill shot. Either they died, or the bandits died.

Blood was, in the end, the price of freedom.

He gritted his teeth.

And made ready for more fighting.

* * *

><p>The tablet was responding to commands again. "Finally, this piece of shit is working. The grand finale approaches." Chris said. He was doing his "evil dungeon master" routine again, cackling and rubbing his hands. The players rolled their eyes. Wahya looked mildly worried – her character's fate was on the line.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Bandit Main Barricade, <strong>**Forest of Cormanthor, the Ordulin-Highmoon Road **

"My lord, they've shot the green message arrow. Horse archers are in position. The men at the trap are ready to restrain the prisoners." reported the bandit captain. A tall, handsome man, he wore camouflaged leather armor and wielded a sharp long sword.

Their new chief answered in a mysterious voice, "Thank you captain, but I have eyes as well, you know. Eyes all around."

The alliance with the mage in purple had proved... profitable, in the end, mused the bandit captain. Even if he was taffing creepy. All that power, and all he cared about was taking a few peasants prisoner. Mages were crazy, the lot of 'em. The bandit captain was startled as the mage said, "Don't worry yourself, captain. The prisoners will be worth it, in the end. Or rather, the prisoner." The bastard in purple smiled.

The bandit captain was startled. He had better watch what he was thinking or doing when the Boss was around. _Prisoner?_ he couldn't help but wonder. _Which peasant _does_ he want?_

"Just the baby, captain. The others are... not as important." The mage's soft old voice turned harsh. "Their child is more valuable than all of you put together. Remember what happens to those who disobey. No harm must befall her. Is that... clear?"

The bandit captain turned white with fear. He nodded.

The mage's voice turned soft again. "Simple yes or no will suffice."

"Y-yes, my Lord. You shall have her."

"Good. They approach. You and your men now have your chance. Take it."

* * *

><p>The players started jabbering excitedly.<p>

"Hey, it'z ze cocksucker in purple!"

"What the hell does he wants with us?"

"He wants your sweet ass, Alfie!"

"He can fuck a dick for all I care, he ain't getting _my_ sweet ass!"

"Nice voice acting, Chris."

"So how about it, DM? Who's this douche?"

Chris answered in his "scheming dungeon master voice", "Oh you'll learn all that later, much later. _Mwhahahahahah!_"

Abigail face-palmed. "At least you're enjoying yourself, otherwise you wouldn't be hamming it up so much."

Chris raised his voice, "OK, OK, shut up! And watch..."

Abigail grumbled, "Seems like watching is all most of us have been doing lately..."

Wahya softly said, "Did you listen to what the mage-guy said? They want little Feara. They want my character, that's why all the chase."

Alfie replied mockingly, "Oh, what a relief. They're after _your_ sweet ass, not mine."

* * *

><p>"Blaera, horse archers are back! Where's my supporting fire, woman?!"<p>

Blaera took a peek through a tear in the canvas cover.

She breathed in and out a few times profoundly.

She waited until she felt that the target was lined up, and fired.

A panicked yell was the only result.

The veteran bandits on the ashen horses screamed to their blond comrades for suppressing fire.

The blond rookies started firing chaotically through the dust in the wagon's direction.

* * *

><p>Wahya rolled her die to attack. A miss.<p>

She opened her mouth to complain.

Chris sensed what was coming.

"The bandits are using Rapid Shot and moving at the same time because it's _they_ who are shooting as a full-round action, and the horses are trained to ride onward until they get input from the rider. You've missed due to concealment, which, before you start complaining, works both ways. The dust cloud and the wagon cover both offer 20% concealment, which means both the bandits and defenders must roll 80 or better on the percentile die before they have a snowball's chance in Hell of hitting. Will that be all?"

Wahya closed her mouth without complaining.

Alfie grinned and playfully punched his shoulder. "Way to go, Dungeon Dude. Less gabbing, more dice-rolling."

"Quite. Moving on..."

* * *

><p>Arnall sat on his rump and stared helpless straight ahead. He was out of spears, and had achieved sod-all by throwing them anyway. He wiped his sweaty brow, and saw blood dripping from his nose. The dust was obscuring vision quite a bit. They would soon drown in blood... The adrenalin high was wearing off. All had been... for naught... They would die, and achieve nothing. He would shed a tear, if only he wasn't so dehydrated.<p>

Blaera sat down to reload her crossbow.

"What do we do now?" he asked with a hoarse voice.

"What do you mean?"

"They fired the green arrow, aye?"

"Aye. What of it?" answered Blaera.

"We're finished. The trap is ready. The Boss... he's there. We're being herded to them. We're taffed." he finished in a hollow voice.

"No." said Blaera simply.

"No... what? Think you can just say _no_ to the Boss?! No-one does that and lives!"

Blaera answered calmly, "I'm saying _no_ to your former boss. I'm saying _no_ to Fate, the Heavens and the Hells, and all the taffing gods in-between. This is my family and I'll protect it. My life to live. My destiny to do as I can, and _then_ die."

He simply stared. "Are you sure yer not one of th' heroes of old? You sure do sound like one."

"No," said Blaera merrily, "just a peasant woman with a family ta protect." She finished reloading.

"I see." Arnall started laughing.

It was the stress of the situation, maybe he'd finally snapped. Maybe not.

Parents with a child to protect were, after all, the fiercest creatures beneath the sun.

They might make it.

Arnall felt emboldened by the warrior-woman. "But for a different life... you could've been the Crimson Axe Maiden, m'lady. You fight like a lioness."

She waved dismissively. "There weren't no worthy men among the bandits. 'Cept for the one right here."

She smacked Arnall in the shoulder playfully. He smiled slightly.

An arrow struck Blaera's shield on her back. If it hadn't been for the shield...

"Do we spend our lives talking or fighting?" said Blaera fiercely.

"We fight." said Arnall resolutely.

"If you're quite done gabbing," bellowed Aelthas, "some more support fire would be nice, dear!"

Blaera grinned.

She rose from cover suddenly, ignoring the bandit's suppression fire.

Then drew a bead and shot the horse from under a blond horse archer.

She took cover as man and horse bellowed and collapsed.

* * *

><p>Wahya was satisfied. "Finally. Role-playing is nice and all, but dice rolling gets things done."<p>

Chris grinned. "You don't expect Blaera and Aelthas to just... put aside their marital teasing simply 'cause they're in combat, now do you?"

Alfie smirked. "Ooh, 'marital teasing'? Sounds kinky. I like it."

"Even a bowl of milk and cornflakes would sound kinky to you."

"Well, actually..."

"_Nevermind._ Now, where was I? Ahem..."

* * *

><p>" 'Darn me socks, Blaera! Is dinner ready, hunny-bunny? I need supporting fire, love o' me life!' " said Blaera, amused, crouching behind cover. "It's a wonder how the bloody man survived afore he married me." Arnall snickered.<p>

Muscles tense. Eye zooms in. Numbers are fudged.

An arrow is released. Enchanted.

_Merciful_, it sang through the air.

Merciful, but oh so cruel.

Numbers are fudged. Trajectory, velocity, wind speed.

Gravitational fluctuations. Planetary rotation. Magical field interactions.

A smaller number can grow up, if it eats all its greens and listens to its parents.

It grows up into a bigger number.

The arrow is being guided in.

The plan _**must**_ work.

"GAH!"

"_Aelthas!_ Are you hit?!"

"...aye..."

Blaera looked at her husband, horrified.

Her world narrowed to the awful sight of _an arrow sticking out of his arm_.

No blood flowed, the arrow seemed fused to flesh.

Eldritch sparks danced around it. He looked pale.

Good gods, not... not like this...

* * *

><p>"Really? Just like that, all of a sudden, he gets hit? " Wahya sounded annoyed. And worried.<p>

Chris tried to placate her. "Easy now. It's a Merciful arrow, it does non-lethal damage, and I rolled lousy for damage. He also took an injury to his wrist earlier in the fight."

* * *

><p>Blaera dropped the crossbow, and rushed to her husband's side.<p>

Her only purpose in life then and there was to keep Aelthas awake.

* * *

><p>"If he goes down... Well, Blaera has a crappy Handle Animal skill. She won't be able to steer the wagon well, at all..."<p>

* * *

><p>Aelthas was pale. The arrow was doing gods-only-know what to him.<p>

He sighed."Oh, 'twas a fine fight... a fine fight indeed. A good day ta die, I suppose."

* * *

><p>The DM looked at his player. "So, I guess you've become attached to these characters."<p>

"I guess I did. I'm invested in their tale. I hope they make it..." Her voice trailed off.

Chris' expression hardened. "Well then, too bad, Wahya. This is Dungeons & Dragons. You live with the consequences of your choices. You fight for survival. No saving, no loading. You _live_ by the dice, and _die_ by the dice. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Remember, you said you're rolling with the punches. _No whining now._"

* * *

><p>All things considered, this was a beautiful day.<p>

A sunlit day, with pine trees all around.

The stench of blood and fear tempered by the earthy scent of the forest.

She held him like a child, her auburn locks caressing his suffering brow.

"Aye, Aelthas. It's a good day ta die. But a finer day ta live on."

He turned his sweaty face towards the love of his life. They locked eyes.

"Remember, th' horses need a strong hand to goad 'em on. A firm hand and firmer voice."

"Yes, yes. I know. _Hold on, dear..._"

* * *

><p>Wahya assented. "I guess you're right. Time to see this to the end."<p>

She noticed the NPCs were talking without any human input.

Now _that_ was good scripting. Those poor people...

* * *

><p>The horses had passed that point of fear into true terror.<p>

Running away from the smells of aggression and blood was now their only purpose in life.

The terrifying chase had driven everything else from their minds.

It seemed almost funny to Aelthas. They'd survived so much already.

And it was all going to be cut short, all for naught...

...thanks to a little thing like an arrow...

...and the wrong sort of luck...

"I'm just... gonna... close me eyes for... for just a bit..."

"No, no, no, you stay awake, _you stay awake Aelthas Telstaerr_, you hear me? _Do_ y_ou hear me?!_"

"Remember... firm hand and... firmer voice..." he whispered, then passed out.

The gamers silently watched Aelthas' hit point counter read [UNCONSCIOUS].

He was out of the fight, for now.

"And then, there were only two little pigs left." whispered Wahya, almost with sadness.

The warrior-woman steadied Aelthas' unconscious form.

She rolled him gingerly in the back of the wagon.

Then Blaera Telstaerr was left to direct the fear-maddened horses, alone.

And the bandit barricade loomed ahead.

* * *

><p><strong>Objective achieved. Plot progression restored.<strong>

"Incoming message from Gothic-11. Reports success."

"Sure took long enough. Patch it through to ground personnel. The Big Man will be happy, at least."

"On it."

_**Understood. Authorizations rescinded. Relaying to on-site personnel. **_Then, on to others,_** Target down, repeat, driver is down.**_

* * *

><p>The bandit captain reported, "My Lord, spotters say the wagon is approaching. They are close now. The men are ready." The mage nodded. His eyes were fixed on the approaching dust cloud, beyond it. As if he saw more things, and more clearly, than mortals around him did.<p>

"Signal the horse archers to stand down, captain. They've done their job."

"Yes, my lord."

The mage whispered to himself, "Another piece in place."

"My lord?"

"Don't concern yourself with that, captain. See to your men. Bring me the child."

* * *

><p>"He's out cold. Well... crap. What now?" Wahya seemed dejected. From perky, funny-drunk nerd playing awesome action-hero parents and making fucking <em>peasants<em>, of all things_,_ kick ass... to confused, disappointed and even sad in less than a half hour. Now that was just sad to watch, mused Alfie.

"Hey, I've got an idea. Ask the bandit traitor dude for help. Like, that action, where you ask for help and get a bonus to a roll or something...what's it called..."

"Aid another?"

"I guess so, check a rule book or something."

Wahya looked through the Player's Handbook on the laptop. "Page 154, Special Attacks, page 65 when applying to skill checks." She skimmed through the rules, then lifted her head and offered a grateful smile."Thanks. Now I know what to do. I'd... totally forgotten about Aid Another for some reason."

Alfie waved dismissively. "Yeah, no problem. I mean, with my luck at dice, I'm gonna be using this pretty much nonstop."

* * *

><p><strong>RULES<strong>

_Aid another_ is a nifty little way to help out an ally even if you're a big stupid fighter with no spells. I mean, besides killing their attackers. In melee combat, you can help a friend attack and defend by distracting or interfering with an opponent. If you're in position to make a melee attack against an opponent engaged with an ally, roll to hit against Armor Class 10 as a standard action. If you succeed, your friend gets a +2 bonus on his next attack roll against that opponent or a +2 bonus to AC against that opponent's next attack (your choice), as long as that attack comes before the beginning of your next turn. Multiple characters can aid the same friend, and similar bonuses stack.

_Aid another_ works with skills as well. For example: Safana the skimpy elf witch is trying to Climb up on a ledge. Brutus the muscle-bound, pea-brained barbarian is trying to look up Safana's skirt. His player declares that he's aiding Safana in her climbing attempt, clumsily rolls 10 or better, plus any relevant bonuses, on his Climb check, and gives Safana a +2 boost in more ways than one. Safana has the higher ground, Brutus gets his jollies, Brutus' player gets smacked by the DM's sister upside the head. And everybody at the table is either amused or feeling uncomfortable. _Aid another_ – fun for the whole family!

* * *

><p>"I'm asking Arnall for Aid Another, Handle Animal check."<p>

Chris nodded. "Rolling. He made it. You get a +2 bonus in Handle Animal. But you also have a -2 circumstance penalty for being untrained in that skill. Roll them bones."

"That was Aelthas' specialty, actually. Here it goes." Wahya rolled her green d20. It bounced around the tray a little. It stopped.

The die landed on 12. "Plus 2 bonus, that's 14. Minus 2 penalty, that's still 12. What's her Charisma modifier?"

"Umm, zero. I sort of min-maxed these peasants' stats. A little."

"Yeah, you make it."

* * *

><p>A yellow burst of light lit up the sky briefly. A message for their riders, no doubt.<p>

The horse archers were backing off, but that was precious little comfort.

Blaera had taken the reins, but couldn't control the horses well on her own.

She remembered that there _was_ another ally at her side.

"Arnall! Some help here!"

Arnall had been struck with fear when Aelthas had gone down. Fear that the brave man had been slain.

Blaera's plea for help snapped him out of it. "I'm here, ma'am."

"Good. Keep the horses steady." She felt relieved, somewhat.

"There's still the barricade we gots to worry about. And the Boss. How's your husband?" Blaera's mind felt numb.

Her only concern since the bandits attacked had been to keep everyone alive. She'd never reckoned with dealing with a blockade _and_ a wizard to boot. The only advice she'd received in the militia, when it came to enemy spellcasters, was to stay _well_ away. Maybe ambush them, or let some other poor fool attack them. How to deal with the bastard...?

"Still breathing... heavens know what sorta arrow hit 'im. Is there any way 'round the barricade?"

Arnall frowned, concentrating. "There might be. There's a small side path to the left of the road, but it's narrow enough for a man on foot, much less a wagon..."

"Beshaba's smiling down on us today, I reckon." said Blaera bitterly.

She'd have cursed the goddess of misfortune then and there if she thought the deity wasn't listening.

"Mayhap Tymora will intercede." replied Arnall, invoking Beshaba's sister, the goddess of good fortune. He strained to keep the horses under control.

Blaera nodded her thanks. She retrieved her crossbow and started reloading it furiously.

Mayhap the lady was angry at herself for her husband's injury. Arnall glanced at the massive bulk of the unconscious potter. In his shoulder there was an arrow with a Merciful enchantment, with light blue fletching to make it easier to know. It glimmered with an unearthly sheen. At least he was all right, just taking a nap.

"Your husband'll be fine." Blaera glanced up. "The arrow's a special magical design, it knocks you out. You wake up with a dry throat and sore head, but you wake up, soon as it's pulled out of ya. Not the same luck for them that are bleeding in the back there."

"Oh." She glanced at the dead bandits, ugly, gaping wounds red with concealed blood. She shuddered.

That could have been her. That could have been Aelthas. That could have been... Feara...

Aelthas was down, but alive. Time to check on the little 'un.

She lifted the mail shirt draped over Feara's shield-armored baby cot.

She was greeted by her sweet child's face, still streaming with a few tears, still gurgling, stretching out her little hands towards her mum. If not for the fact that the little dear had been bawling her heart out for the duration of the chase, she'd have been deathly worried.

She stroked wee Feara's cheek and made soothing sounds. The baby's skin, warm and tear-stained, helped made up her mind. "We can either be slain by spikes, arrows or spells... my daughter captive to a mad wizard for a vile purpose..."

Arnall strained against the wagon hitting a bump in the road. "Or we could...?"

"We could try running the barricade. Gods know, we _could_ try turning back to the caravan station in town."

She started laughing hysterically – _laughing_, for heaven's sake – as she carried on, the child in front of her pawing at her auburn locks and gore-stained cheek, distracted from fright at last. "Or, or, we could... _ahahahaha_, we could ask them, all polite-like, to _kindly let us go_! We, we, _ahahahah_, we ain't got nothin' worth taking, me lords! Just sacks of old clothes, some simple food and me... me husbands _bleedin'_ pottery tools! It's a king's ransom, that is! Heheheh, would... would make up for all the trouble and death they went... through... what's wrong now...?" She trailed off.

"That." pointed Arnall, in a surreal calm voice.

* * *

><p>"This is bloody excitin'."commented Abigail.<p>

Everyone else ignored her.

* * *

><p>Blaera's face showed resignation. She placed Feara back in her crib and shrugged.<p>

"Might as well have Aelthas awake for this."

She removed the arrow from his shoulder, then woke up her husband with some cold water from their drinking barrel. Funnily enough, the arrow had left no mark aside from a torn shirt sleeve. Her husband awoke confused, wished to say something, then noticed what was ahead. Stony-faced, he stood up unsteadily and squeezed Blaera to his chest.

All three stared ahead, faces turning white with fear.

The runners were really up shite creek without a paddle now.

It was a few hundred feet away still, more than three hundred, but less than four.

Too far to make out little details, but the sheer mass of it stuck to the retina.

Imagination and dread did the rest.

The barricade... it was a large, hastily-built thing, pine-trunks lashed together with rope and nails. Numerous bandits stood by with bows drawn, pointing at the wagon and jabbering. Behind them, the one responsible for it all. The one who would take away their future and child – a figure in a purple robe. The wizard himself.

The sheer inevitability of it hit.

Ahead, their sorcerous enemy smiled.

They could not see him clearly, but he saw them. Felt their approach.

For his eyes saw farther, and most than other beings.

* * *

><p>The Sage of Creepers had landed somewhere uncomfortable, after their short jaunt via magic. He cursed. "Blast these pine cones. And the pollen is murder on my nose. Beautiful season, spring, but never could stand pollen." Muunthar ignored the druid. The treant slipped a root into the dirt, feeling for ground vibrations. He could soon sense the gallop of frightened horses and the creak of wagon wheels not too far off, coupled with the residual agony of enslaved wood and metal. The old druid squatted near the treant.<p>

"I gather you felt them approach," he whispered.

"Yes. They hurdle headlong into doom. And worst of it, I believe they know this." The treant's voice sounded sorrowful.

The druid snorted in derision.

"They have a child with them. The young pup is innocent of its parents' crimes."

"You really have a soft-spot for babes, don't you?"

"Your grand-daughter, if she had survived, would have been about the same age."

The druid's heart skipped a beat. The feelings of murder within were stilled, for awhile.

"You old talking hunk of wood..." he swore softly. "Fine, have it your way."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ground team, be advised. We are tracking Out – Of – Scenario intruders in your Area of Operations. High Order Creatures, 2 bogies, one druid, one treant. Orders, over?<strong>_

_**I copy. They're of no consequence. Do not engage, say again, do not engage. Proceed with the plan. Leave them to me, over.**_

_**We copy, ground team. Good hunting, over.**_

* * *

><p>Chris tore his gaze away from the hologram, where the drama was unfolding.<p>

He scratched his chin, pondering. "Well, let's see how they get out of this one." he said aloud.

Better to say he _thought_ aloud, but Wahya took it almost as a challenge.

She was still a little upset. "What is is, railroading? Is this a supposed-to-lose fight so you can get the plot moving, or whatever?" she grumbled.

Chris paused the game, and said defensively, "Hey now, you know it's a bad habit I'm trying to kick. And I am, I'm trying hard not to do anymore lazy dungeon mastering."

"Oh please... they're about to be captured. Just as you planned, I bet. Feara's gonna be some creepy old man's _pet_. I hope you're happy."She crossed her arms and sulked, leaning back into her chair.

Alfie grinned. "So, I guess you could say your ass is _literally_ on the line."

Wahya's eyes went wide. "Oh, _ew_. Feara's still a _baby_. _Not cool__!_"

Alfie winced in sympathy. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I forgot. Oh _yuck,_ old man dick."

"...yuck, indeed."

Fedor smirked. "Ein baby made it farther zan Oliver's bad-ass commando guy." He turned to the neutral-faced South African and ribbed him. "Hey, how's it feel to be outperformed by ein baby zo far, eh?"

Oliver shrugged. "I was set-up to fall. DM fiat, totally no chance. At least it was enjoyable, for a while."

Chris felt discouraged when he heard that. "Waitwaitwait, _enjoyable, for a while_? What, what's wrong?"

"I just felt... a bit disappointed that Bryn couldn't get away." Then, to placate the clearly sulking DM, he quickly added, "I get what you're doing. You want our characters to eventually meet in similar circumstances or the same place and form a team, fire-forged friendship, that sort of thing, am I right?"

Chris nodded dejectedly. He said defensively, "Well, you have to have _something_ in common. I mean, your mercenary dude started in 1370 Dale Reckoning in Calimport, and Feara's still a baby in 1350-something DR in bumfuck-nowhere. Barring exceptional circumstances, these two people would _never_ meet, much less work together, in their lifetimes. So this wizard ties these two stories and characters together."

Oliver nodded, as if to himself. He leaned back in his chair, as if he was a professor, lecturing a student with potential that had just made a mistake. "And if some of us didn't agree with this idea of yours, of meeting like this, then what's your backup plan?"

Chris was about to answer. He had one, no, several backup plans, in fact. Or rather, he used to. It was as if they'd all fled his brain soon after being conceived, the ungrateful bastards.

He opened his mouth, then, with ears burning with shame, he closed it without saying anything.

Selim spotted his friend's trouble.

He said, cheerfully, "That's alright, Chris. It happens to everyone. Writer's block, or DM's block in your case I suppose. Then again, you're the one that has to organize and manage and create everything. You make the game world come alive in our imagination, so it's a difficult job sometimes. We're all grateful that you took the time to DM for us. If you'd like us to chip in with ideas..." His offer of help was interrupted by a sudden coughing spat. The young Arab snatched a napkin to cover his mouth. The others exchanged worried glances.

Charlie touched his shoulder and said gently, "Been taking that medicine yet? No offense but, I know that you're a little..."

Selim finished coughing into a napkin and smirked. "...fragile? I prefer 'sickly', it doesn't make me feel like such a delicate flower."

You know, if you'd just look into alternative medicine..."

Selim harrumphed. "My mother and father don't trust too much in natural cures." He said slyly, "Although if I had it my way, I'd even try scorpion venom if it helped. I have these, instead." He produced a bottle of pills. "About time I took them for today, too."

Abigail snapped her fingers. "Hey, that reminds me – about time we partook of that bounty of snacks we brought. Even if a certain _somebody_ devoured my candy," she shot a glance at Wahya, who shrugged and smiled sheepishly, "there's plenty of other goodies to go around."

"Well, Ramadan is over, so I can join in. Only, no alcohol, please. Religion and all that."

Oliver turned to Chris. "Would it be alright if we took a snack break now? It will give you some more time to think up new ideas."

"Yeah... I should have prepared for this, really. And I could have SWORN that I had some ideas just for such an occasion. I don't think I wrote them down though. I apologize for that, and I will use part of this snack break to think of something. And write it down this time. Sounds good?"

A chorus of assurances and assents cheered him on somewhat.

Chris sagged in his chair with relief, and whispered to himself, "Trebuie să fiu mai atent, aşa ceva nu mai merge." (I gotta be more careful, this will no longer do.")

Alfie punched him playfully in the shoulder. "Cheer up, Dungeon Commander. Snacksies now, thinkies later."

Chris smiled and nodded his thanks. The entire group had gotten up, stretched, and was noisily moving towards the kitchen.

Oliver got out of his chair and straightened his back. He looked Chris straight in the eyes. "Please keep in mind what I said. Remember, in the game-lore, adventuring groups often form in exceptional circumstances."

"Come on, Mr Exceptional. Burgers are getting cold."

"I'm coming, Alfie."

She chuckled, "Heh, you said..."

Oliver grumbled, "I know, I know, sexual innuendo. I hope those chicken nuggets are still edible. Can't abide beef."

There would be tasty things to eat and drink, merriment to be had, and ideas to write down. Chris felt relieved. He hoisted himself out of the chair, grabbed a notepad and pencil, and made to join them. Before leaving the old-fashioned living room to join in the merry-making in the kitchen, the blond DM took another look at the sleek black tablet and holographic projector that had simply fallen into their lap. Hard to believe it was barely three hours ago that this had... happened...

Weird.

He could've sworn...

Wait, that wasn't right. He leaned in closer to have a better look.

There was something... something near the forest dirt road...

He frowned in concentration, sat back down then used his fingers to zoom in on the region map.

There were two NPCs hidden near the road, roughly at the midpoint between the bandit barricade and the Telstaerr family's wagon. He'd only noticed them now.

He clicked on them to learn more info. Short character sheets popped up for each in turn. A high-level elderly human male druid named The Sage of Creepers and a male advanced treant named Muunthar. Nice, fantasy names. One use of _transport via plants_ expended from each of their large lists of spells or spell-like abilities.

Except that... Chris had not placed either of these NPCs on the roster.

He hadn't placed _any_ encounter triggers there, no druids or treants this powerful were on any random encounter charts for this region.

Hell, there weren't even _supposed_ to be any random encounters here. At all.

This was a carefully-scripted set-piece, a separate instance of a slice of the world in and of itself.

They'd just sort of... spawned out of thin air. Chris felt a cold shiver down his spine.

He'd almost felt like he was being watched, for a brief moment. He shook his head, to snap out of it. This wasn't like him, at all. He had to remind himself that he was a logical man, a man that firmly believed that everything could or would eventually be explained by laws of science, laws that made or would eventually make sense. There was no such thing as ghosts or crap like that.

It was probably just a systems glitch. NPCs being spawned in from the wrong lists or some such. He'd file in a bug report with Wizards of the Coast right after he ate something. Chris felt his stomach grumbling lightly with hunger. And an idea popped into his head. If the druid-guy and the walking tree were there, might as well use them. He'd pop out during the break, make some excuse, see if he could reprogram those two to act like an impromptu rescue squad for the Telstaerrs. That would inject something fresh into their game and get Wahya off his back.

His head full of ideas happily bubbling in his head, he joined his friends in the noisy kitchen.

Except...

...that there _was_ a ghost in the room...

A ghost in the machine.

* * *

><p><strong>A.N<strong> – 224 words. **RULES** – 322 words. **NARRATOR THINGY** – 82 words. **ACTUAL STORYTIME** – 7066 words I've worked on quite hard.


End file.
